


The Ballad of Barrens and Blades

by dentigerous



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bi Jaskier or we riot, F/M, M/M, Monosyllabic Blade Babes, Monster of the Week, OCs everywhere, Slow Burn, Trans Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous/pseuds/dentigerous
Summary: Jaskier scrambled across a clearing, almost on his hands and knees. He fumbled for the short sword he had been given and stood, eyes wide as Geralt stalked towards him.“Geralt, I really don’t see-”“Sword up!”Jaskier flinched and barely raised his sword in time to meet Geralt’s swing. The impact was enough to make his hand go numb, and he gasped, stumbling back. He looked down at his hand, thankfully still holding the blasted blade, eyes wide.“My god, you’re not even trying, are you?”-------Jaskier has convinced Geralt to accompany him to Novigrad, but the road is long and full of monsters. They save some towns, smooch some ladies, and will eventually, make out with each other. This is a slow burn, Jaskier PoV.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Character(s)
Comments: 278
Kudos: 1253
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY, favorites





	1. Blades

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is just my excuse to indulge in epic fantasy bullshit while also pretending that I can write like Tamsyn Muir. Jaskier is a disaster, but he has uninhibited thoughts and wandering hands and I'm keen. Also, Jaskier is everyone who has ever looked at Geralt's ass and wanted to toss a coin directly at it. 
> 
> Enjoy this slow-burn Jaskier trash fic where he gets to learn how to swordfight, is thirsty for 90% of the cast, and also gets to watch Geralt strip a few days a week all the while writing catchy jingles and wearing the finest doublets i've ever seen. The bard is really living his bliss and I respect the hell out of that.

Jaskier scrambled across a clearing, almost on his hands and knees. He fumbled for the short sword he had been given and stood, eyes wide as Geralt stalked towards him.

“Geralt, I really don’t see-”

“Sword up!”

Jaskier flinched and barely raised his sword in time to meet Geralt’s swing. The impact was enough to make his hand go numb, and he gasped, stumbling back. He looked down at his hand, thankfully still holding the blasted blade, eyes wide.

“My god, you’re not even trying, are you?”

“Up!”

Jaskier parried again, the clash of their weapons ringing through the clearing. Roach, tied to a branch, flicked her ears back and then forward again, more interested in the grass growing at the base of the tree.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Jaskier said, backing up against a tree. He managed to fend off another attack from Geralt, doing his best not to be too impressed as the man spun around, and instead focused on his own life being inches away from over. “Absurd! Geralt, the most I’ll do in a fight is provide a distraction and that-”

With another great swing, the Witcher disarmed Jaskier, who shook his hand out, looking affronted.

“This is my strumming hand! Do you know what happens if I can’t pluck a tune, huh? My entire livelihood is-”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, and he ducked just in time, the length of Geralt’s sword dug deep into the tree, splinters and bark showering his hair. His mouth open, heart racing, still clutching his hands to his chest, Jaskier looked up at Geralt with huge eyes.

“Was that entirely necessary!?” Jaskier would have liked to think that his voice wasn’t any higher than normal, but he was, sadly, very reedy.

Geralt crouched down, staring flatly at the bard.

“We’re going into bandit country,” Geralt said, his voice shamefully even. Did he ever lose his breath? Jaskier was reasonably sure that Geralt couldn’t sweat if he wanted to. “You need to learn how to hold a sword.”

“I know how to hold a sword,” Jaskier grumbled.

“And you have no idea what to do with it.”

Jaskier blinked. Fair. Very fair.

“Well, you don’t know how to play the lute.”

“We only have one lute,” Geralt replied, reaching over for the short sword and pressing it back into Jaskier’s hands, which were calloused from strings and not sword handles, and he was going to be pissed if he spent all that time handling the neck of an instrument just to have his artist’s hands turned into meaty Witcher-paws. Geralt stood, taking ahold of his sword and expertly levering it out of the tree.

“That’s no excuse for ignoring your artistic side.” Jaskier stood up, still leaning against the trunk. At least his voice had returned to normal and he wasn’t squeaking like a teenager. Geralt was heading across the clearing.

“Sword up.” Geralt growled over his shoulder.

Jaskier sighed, eyes drifting. Honestly, he could watch that ass walk away all day. God bless leather pants, they did wonders for Geralt’s shape. It was too bad that when Geralt turned around his expression was less ‘come hither’ and much more ‘have at thee.’ Jaskier steadied his shoulders.

“Now, I honestly believe we should take a few seconds to reflect on-”

Geralt sprung forward again, and this time Jaskier swore that he could see muscles through the man’s shirt that Jaskier had never seen before. It was unjust that Geralt displayed such fantastic pectorals just as he was jumping towards him with a sword in hand.

Jaskier got his own blade up just in time for Geralt to literally slap it away and shoulder check him into the ground. What a pity such a magnificent creature had the personality of an aging hedgepig.

He coughed, groaned, and wished for death.

“Get up.”

“No,” Jaskier wheezed, closing his eyes. “I get up, you demand I lift a sword, you hit me.”

“That’s what sword practice is.”

“Fuck off, Geralt.”

Leaving Jaskier curled up on the ground, Geralt walked back to Roach, checking her tack. Jaskier opened his eyes, sitting up slowly.

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re not going to learn we might as well head back south. I won’t take you to Novigrad when all you are is dead weight.”

Jaskier picked himself off, dusting his bright clothing off. He glanced up at Geralt, eyebrows raised. “Aye, dead weight, but not dead,” he said, jogging around to stand on the other side of the horse, holding onto the saddle and ineffectively blocking Geralt from taking care of his duties.

“Geralt, my friend, is it truly so bad that I have faith in your abilities? That I find you so capable, so...surefooted and resourceful that I feel no need to use a sword?” Jaskier said, ignoring it when Geralt pushed his arms off Roach’s saddle. Jaskier scrambled around the horse.

“I find it idiotic,” he growled. As Geralt pulled back to pick up the saddlebags, Jaskier slid in between the Witcher and his horse. Geralt set his jaw, glaring at Jaskier, who resolved that he’d have to compose a ditty dedicated to the amber-gold of his eyes immediately, or it would be a crime against art and beauty.

“Please.” Jaskier’s voice was soft, he was smiling, his hands up. He was trying to placate Geralt and it was almost, _almost_ working. Just a little nudge and the old hedgepig would be ready to curl up and accept his fate. “There are many towns on the way north, many people who have gone months, nay, years without the help of a witcher.”

“Then they’ll last a while longer,” Geralt growled. “Move.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing!”

“All the more reason I’m not needed.” Jaskier was shoved out of the way, and Geralt settled the packs on Roach’s back. Jaskier ran back around the horse (said horse did not move, bless her, Jaskier owed her an apple) and pulled the packs off before Geralt was able to fasten them down.

“Do not test me, bard,” Geralt snarled, baring his teeth. Honestly, those teeth should not make Jaskier’s heart beat so fast, but there is obviously no God nor fairness when it came to what turned Jaskier on. It usually didn’t take much, and when it came to Geralt it took basically nothing at all. It was an absurd and terrible situation and Jaskier wasn’t entirely comfortable with the fact that very sharp pointy teeth did things to him.

“No, no test! Look!” Jaskier put the saddlebags back over the branch and ducked under, coming face to face with Geralt. “I’m asking, as a friend-”

“We’re not friends.”

“That’s a lie, Geralt, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” Jaskier continued on, ignoring the sting. “What about a compromise? It’s obvious that I can’t learn to hold a sword in a day, or-” Jaskier noted the look on Geralt’s face, “even a week, I get it. But we’ll practice every day.”

“I don’t have time to teach you every day.”

“That’s another lie, my friend, we’ll go slower, but we’ll spend more time on the road! Securing your reputation, making your way through the small hamlets. We get home-made meals, easy work, and you continue to clear the land of monsters, as is your wont, destiny, desire, what have you.”

The look at the Geralt gave him was haunted, and Jaskier tucked that away for a rainy day or an evening at a bar when he could finally press a third drink into Geralt’s hand. He supposed that for a man like Geralt destiny had a way of getting into your step like a rock in your boot.

“And,” Jaskier added, turning to get the saddlebags, holding them out to Geralt. “I’ll learn how to poke people with the pointy end of the sword. Cross my heart.”

Geralt remained silent. He looked around the clearing, at the sparse area where Jaskier’s non-existent footwork had destroyed the grass. Jaskier smiled a little. He turned and put the bags on the horse’s back himself.

“Do you know what we’re going into?”

The magic word - _we_. Jaskier grinned as he turned back to Geralt, eyebrows up.

“I’ve seen it on a map..”

“It’s nearly eighty miles through mountains and the barrens,” Geralt growled, pushing Jaskier out of the way to fasten the rest of the tack. “Bandits. Sparse populations. Beast-holds.”

Jaskier grinned, picking up his lute. “So we’ll stock up on jerky and whetstones!” He refused to be disappointed after getting his way, even if the road ahead was sounding worse and worse. This was the price he paid for art. And beautiful, pliant men and women. He dusted off his green pants one more time and looked up at Geralt, who was sitting on Roach with a resigned expression.

“This is going to be a bonding experience for us, I know it.” Jaskier pulled his lute around, plucking at a few strings. Geralt rolled his eyes (the handsome devil) and nudged Roach northward, towards a new area of the world. “I think we should commemorate this moment.”

“Don’t.”

Too late. Jaskier grinned, turning around, humming. Geralt avoided looking directly at him, but Jaskier knew, hoped, sometimes even prayed, that Geralt at the very least found his tunes enjoyable. Maybe not that Geralt enjoyed them, per se, but perhaps the Witcher didn’t hate them.

_“The odds were against us,  
_ _when we went north to Novigrad,  
_ _Through the rocky valleys,  
_ _the known bandit-land.  
_ _The wolves were fearless,  
_ _at our heels in the woods-”_

“Bard-”

“Don’t tell me it didn’t happen! I saw a wolf just the other day, and I’m not convinced there aren’t more,” Jaskier called over his shoulder, still strumming. He hummed a bar again, tilting his head as he thought.

“It was a dog-”

Jaskier groaned, “Geralt!”

The witcher, wisely, stopped talking. Jaskier looked over at him and grinned. He rather enjoyed giving Geralt orders. It was really only after a few years of traveling on and off with the other man that he had finally wormed his way under his skin.

“At the very least,” Jaskier acquiesced, turning forward again, “it was a very large and mangy dog.”

Behind him, leather armor creaked. Jaskier grinned, tilting his head up.

_“Through the woods, the wolves were fearless,  
_ _at our heels, fierce and bold._  
_They hid behind the trees,  
_ _eyes glowing dark and gold!”_


	2. The Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo the Witcher fandom is thirsty as. Again darlings, this will be slow burn as hell. We’re building up to a very dramatic chapter four, i already have 12K+ written, and i’ve decided i’ll update every monday. this chapter is pretty standard length. If, after a monday posting, I have 3 chapters already written, I will double tap and you’ll get a thursday update. Don’t hold your breath on this though... 
> 
> Ty so much for all your comments they’re lovely and kind and i’m very flattered. i super appreciate all of them and am v much encouraged to write more because of them. For those of you who came for sword lessons, those will come back! In...chapter five, sadly. I got distracted. with honestly how thirsty jaskier is, how much i love mysteries, and just how much fun i'm having. whomst among us can truly know what a witcher thinks?? not fucking jaskier, that's for fucking sure.

It was cold. Desperately cold. Jaskier had been hoping that by going north he would escape the wintery chill but no, the light drizzle of rain had turned into a chilling torrent and he and Geralt were separated from the town where they wanted to stay a few nights by a rather large river. 

A large river with no way across, a ferry that wasn’t appearing, and Jaskier was cold.

“Fuck!” Jaskier cursed, reaching up to ring the ferryman’s bell for at least the third time in ten minutes. This was torture. Absolutely. And Geralt had the nerve to look completely unfazed, the only sign of his displeasure being the slightly deeper furrow in between his brows. 

Jaskier was staring up at him, annoyed that despite the rising chill, all he could think about was the way that he wished he were rain, dripping off the witcher’s jawline.

“What do you expect me to do?” Geralt growled, likely feeling the weight of Jaskier's stare. 

Jaskier was about to ask that he take his shirt off and provide some small joy in his last few minutes on this wretched earth, but before he could respond, there was the sound of chains. Jaskier whipped his head around, eyes huge. 

“The ferry!”

Geralt shifted on Roach, and Jaskier would have cheered if he hadn’t been shaking and his teeth chattering. He was grateful for his oiled cloak but it hardly stopped the chill. His pants were soaked through and the state of his boots would be lamented for years. He shifted on his feet, squinted through the rain, looked to Geralt, back to the river, back to Geralt. 

“Do you see anything?”

The sound of the chain rising through the water, muffled and squelching, didn’t seem to become louder. Geralt didn’t answer, but a growled ‘hm’ came from his general direction. Not encouraging. Not great. Jaskier took a step backwards, eyes on the river, which seemed to have a rising mist at its surface. 

Was he becoming paranoid? Was this how it started? Never trusting a shadow, sound, or stranger? Was this how Geralt felt? Despite the water seeping down the back of his cloak Jaskier felt a hot, nervous sweat, heard his heart in his ears. He glanced at Geralt again, and he didn’t know whether to be comforted or concerned by the way that Geralt remained steadfast. 

“Geralt?” His voice did not go up, it did not, nope, not even a little. 

A twig snapped behind them and Jaskier jumped, turning around to face the woods they had emerged from. A deer? A squirrel? Perhaps a badger.

“ _Geralt_?”

The sound of chains grew. Jaskier glanced up again, now annoyed that the witcher seemed to be in no rush to react to anything at all. Should he feel comforted by this? Jaskier wanted to be comforted, he really did. This was a good sign. A completely good, normal, in fact, this was even a great sign. Jaskier forced himself to feel comforted and instead felt a little bit sick. 

The ferry’s chain was getting louder and that had to be a good sign as well. Overall, a net positive. Jaskier took another deep breath and turned away from the woods, focusing instead on the mist-covered river. Through the sheen of rain, the ferry finally appeared. It was a godsend. Jaskier wanted to cry but wisely didn’t.

“Thank all the fucking gods,” Jasker muttered, shifting away from Geralt’s leg. He hadn’t realized how close he had gotten. Honestly, when had he gotten so near to Roach? Felt a little unproductive, really. It’s not like Geralt's can get off the horse easier with him that close. Ridiculous. 

He took a deep breath, ignoring, _absolutely without-a-doubt ignoring,_ the noises he was hearing over his shoulder. There weren’t any. None at all. If he could convince himself there were no noises, then the noises wouldn’t jump out of the woods and tear his throat out. That was a reasonable explanation and he wasn’t about to allow himself counter-arguments until he was Not At The Goddamn Murder River. 

Instead, he focused on the ferry, which seemed to be run by a pair of women, dragging the chain from one end of pontoon to the other, each with a jacket that seemed to have been created for the sole purpose of cushioning the chain across their shoulders. Jaskier thought they looked quite the romantic pair, similar in build and demeanor, strong, hearty, salt-of-the-earth women. 

He spent a few seconds daydreaming of what their shoulders must have looked like in their prime (magnificent, surely) and realized as they approached that they weren’t that old, it was just their hoods that obscured their faces, and the jackets that obscured their bodies, and they were likely nearing on fifty than sixty, and something in his chest did a quick backflip. Strong, older women. Lords of Mavala save him. He wondered if they were available immediately for a quick tumble. 

Jaskier sighed and wished he could have his lute in hand so he could compose a lyric to their undeniably powerful arms and darling mouths. 

There was another sound behind him and he deliberately focused on the shape of their thighs as the ferry nudged onto the soft shore, the spars of the hull digging into the mud.

“Get on,” one said. “Not safe in the rain.”

“Oh, with pleasure, ma’am.” Jaskier jumped onto the ferry, quickly making his way to the other end, smiling at the other woman. Were they sisters? Childhood friends? A pair of cousins who might be enticed by a swift ode into one chilled bard’s bed? Time would tell. 

As Jaskier prepared a sampling of poetry in his head, Geralt dismounted and gently pulled Roach onto the ferry. Jaskier was too self-absorbed to hear when Geralt’s boots hit the mud but he wasn’t so unfortunate as to miss the soft words of reassurance that came out of the mean, scary witcher as he coaxed his horse onto the boat. 

Jaskier smiled, trying not to swoon, but truly his heart was just doing some wickedly lithe acrobatics in his ribs as he watched Geralt murmur kindness at his beast. 

That moment, he knew, was not making it into any ballad. It was too good to share. 

Jaskier shook his head, his hood falling off his head. “I’m sorry, excuse me,” he said. The twins/cousins/friends/future lovers had already started to pull the ferry chain up, heading back towards the village. “What do you mean, it’s not safe in the rain?” 

Geralt glared at Jaskier from under his hood, and the bard knew him well enough to read the silent warning there. The witcher didn’t want to be revealed until he absolutely had to be. Jaskier made no guarantees, but…

“The bride of the river wanders the banks,” one said. She had light eyes, slim fingers. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, looking at Geralt. “She’s been scorned. Walks the shore at night. Takes the men, leaves the rest.”

“The rest?” Jaskier prompted.

“Aye,” this time, the taller answered. She had fuller lips, dark eyes. “Women, children.”

“Oh, of course-”

“And witchers.” Blue-eyes cut him off. 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows “Huh.”

He snuck a glance at Geralt. The man had his hood up, his medallion hidden under a cloak. Granted, his eyes and swords you couldn’t do much to cover nor hide. Jaskier did his best to make the look seem natural, as if he were just shifting on his feet, but he wasn’t sure that the ferry keepers were even paying attention. 

That was disappointing for a few reasons, but Jaskier quickly steeled and went over to the witcher, swaying slightly on the flat-bottomed boat. Jaskier elbowed Geralt lightly. The man didn’t move, barely even gave, and Jaskier wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. 

“Interesting.” 

“Shut up.” 

Honestly, it was the first time one of Jaskier’s words had been exchanged for two of Geralt's, and despite the fact that syllabically speaking there was a bit of a conversion error, Jaskier was going to take it as a victory. He grinned, standing next to Roach and patting her flank absently as they crossed the river. 

He made idle chat with the ferry keepers, believing the tall one to be Yselda and the shorter to be Arliss, and that they were indeed related, although by such a distance that their lineages had forgotten their association. It was simply ‘family’ at this point, and that was that. He was sure that wouldn’t be a problem for a determined lad eager to bed both at once. 

The boat nosed into the village bank and Jaskier waited, gentleman-like, for Geralt to lead his horse off the ferry.

Geralt glanced at Arliss once he was on the shore, “the nearest inn?”

Jaskier thought it was bad business sense to ask about the inn before asking about the fucking bride of the river, but alright. He was just the bard, after all, and Geralt the big bad witcher in the night. 

Arliss pointed to the left, explained the way to The Bent Bow Public House and Lodgings. Jaskier was preoccupied with images of the bride, and missed out on offering as much as an invitation to join him for an ale at the House. Just as she finished his imaginings, he said farewell to Yselda and Arliss, taking each of their muddy, chain-worn hands in turn, smiling brightly. 

Geralt rolled his eyes and placed a few coins in the ferry box before grasping Jaskier by the nape and pulling him bodily away. 

“It's unlike you to be so concerned with my dalliances!” Jaskier pouted. 

“You’re freezing.”

“Has anyone ever told you that thing you do where you tell people exactly what their bodies are doing is rather disconcerting?” Jaskier asked as he was dragged along. “Honestly, Geralt, I’m-”

Oh gods, Jaskier realized. He was _actually_ freezing. Could he feel his fingers anymore? Were they even there? Was this the end of his career? Would he have to start learning lineages? 

Huh. Well damn the witcher and fuck the bard. “I believe,” Jaskier said through chattering teeth. “We should find that inn.”

Geralt sighed, shook his head, and put his hand in between Jaskier’s shoulders, pushing him with a force that might have passed for gentle were Jaskier a little bit heartier. As it was, he was tired and aching and there was a very, very warm hand on his back and he really couldn’t think much beyond the spread of Geralt’s fingers and the world-weary, but endearing, way that Geralt expressed annoyance. 

It was one of the few feelings Geralt was actually comfortable displaying, and Jaskier was sure that fondness was close behind. 

Fondness or lust, Jaskier wasn’t all that picky. He prayed for lust. Maybe at a more convenient time, if all went truly well.

By the time they reached the Public House, Jaskier had warmed up slightly but he remained absolutely soaked through. Geralt glanced at him and he nodded, taking a few steps forward. It was an unspoken but agreed upon rule that whenever they were at an institution like this, Geralt would see to Roach and Jaskier to the rooms. 

Geralt passed Jaskier his coin and exited, leaving the shivering bard to walk up to the counter and negotiate with the man behind the counter. 

After a brief bit of haggling and the promise to stay an extra night - free of charge! - if Jaskier entertained the crowd the next evening, the bard was handed a key. The baths were on the first floor, and although Jaskier desperately wanted to soak in warm water, he was much more interested in getting dry. 

After waiting for Geralt to return and navigating the courtyard, the two men arrived at their well-lit rooms. Jaskier was grateful that they at least had two beds this time, and quickly started taking off his clothes and hanging them up on the laundry line near the fire. 

Geralt was taking off his armor slowly, arranging it on a low table. “We might have to stay a few days.” 

Jaskier looked over, doing his absolute best not to stare too long at Geralt’s broad shoulders. He nodded and turned back to his work, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it over his own shoulders before stripping completely naked. 

“I’m not surprised,” he said, pinning up the last of his clothes. “I bargained for a free night, so you better pray that my lute survived the rain.”

Geralt didn’t respond. Jaskier rolled his eyes, grabbing the blanket and trudging over to sit in front of the fire. He snagged his lute and sat down, arranging the blanket for the maximum amount of coverage. He was still freezing, his wet hair dripping onto his blanket. 

“Thank you, Jaskier,” the bard muttered. “Your foresight is extraordinary. You really have a talent for being exceptionally useful, making up for all that I lack.”

“Jaskier-” 

Jaskier looked over expectantly, eyebrows up. 

“Shut up.” 

“That’s uncalled for,” Jaskier sniffed, turning back to his instrument, but not before getting an eyeful of Geralt’s bare back. Broad, scarred, well-defined, and everything that Jaskier remembered it to be. His mouth got very dry. He desperately wanted to run his hands over the man’s shoulders (perhaps even drag his nails down his sides,) but instead, he focused on his lute. 

His lute, which was not shaped like a man, nor a woman, and certainly not shaped like Geralt, was at least receptive, and beautifully on key. The sigils that had been burned on the inside of the body at Filavandrel’s outpost kept the instrument dry and easier to travel with. Jaskier pulled out the oiling cloth and began to wipe it down, keeping his eyes on his work. 

He was so preoccupied with the curves of his lute that he nearly missed when Geralt came over in next to nothing, hanging up a few pieces of clothing and sitting down near to him. Jaskier noticed that Geralt’s arms had gooseflesh on them, that his long hair was dripping. He didn’t realize that Geralt could feel the cold. Did he feel it or was his body just reacting? Did it take him longer to warm up, with his heart beating slow in his chest, with the blood taking its sweet time to move up his neck, through the skin of his cheeks? 

Momentarily lost for words, Jaskier was doubly surprised when Geralt glanced at him. 

“Feeling better?”

He would be feeling much better if Geralt were wearing nothing and pulling him close, but right now Jaskier was going to seize what he was offered. He nodded and gestured to the fire. 

“Good.”

Geralt frowned and Jaskier wanted to die. Good. _Good_. Of all the responses. Good. For the love of all gods, what was he thinking? Could he think anymore? Was this what it was like to be dumb? To be bereft of the gifts he prized so highly? Was he a bard or was he just some idiotic pageboy with a Continent-sized crush?

“Right,” Geralt murmured, looking back to the fire. 

Jaskier took a deep breath, resolved to ignore this one small instance of his otherwise relatively faultless record of comebacks and retorts, and looked down at his lute again. 

“Do you know what’s in the river?” he asked, hoping to keep Geralt talking.

“No.”

“An idea perhaps? A suspicion?”

Geralt didn’t answer, and Jaskier sighed, looking down at the instrument again. It wasn’t fair that Geralt couldn’t even distract him with conversation and was instead just sitting there, being exceptionally attractive and very nearly naked, and with a brooding, dark look on his face that should not have been as exceptionally sexy as it was. 

Jaskier was having, perhaps, a hard time focusing on the lute.

“Bride of the river, huh?” He laughed nervously, swallowed, glanced at Geralt. The witcher hadn’t moved. “Sounds like fun. A little poetic, even. Wonder if she’s looking for a husband?”

Geralt closed his eyes, and Jaskier suspected that he was asking some patron deity or saint for patience. Jaskier pressed his mouth and tried very hard not to use this moment to his advantage, not to lean over and kiss him, not to push Geralt the floor and demand to be warmed up from the inside out, not to run his hand through Geralt’s wet hair and tug it back so he could watch Geralt’s Adam's apple move as he swallowed. Instead, Jaskier tightened his grip on his lute and tried to look away. However, he was only a man, and perhaps a very weak one, and he couldn’t help looking over Geralt again. 

There should be mountains named after his thighs. Constellations. Something unforgettable and gorgeous. Why was he waxing poetic about legs? Was this waxing poetic? Were Geralt’s thighs that great? What would they look like in between his own legs? Jaskier’s face heated, and he finally forced himself to look away. 

“Well, if that’s the extent of our hypothesizing, I suppose we should get some rest.” Jaskier shifted, putting the lute back in its case, the oiling cloth and kit tucked into the neck support. “Big day tomorrow. No doubt you’ll want to search for tracks, brood by the river, and glare at a tree or something. I’ll ask about the bride around town, spread some of your renown, find a buyer, and we’ll have a plan for this spinster bitch before noon.”

It was the same ploy they had pulled nearly a dozen times before. Sometimes the jobs were easy and the coin nearly fell into Geralt’s hands. Drowners in the bog. Giant bats in the cave. A small blood-sucker in the stable. 

This didn’t feel like one of those jobs.

Just as Jaskier was about to stand, Geralt looked at him again. “You’ll need a horse.”

“For this?” Jaskier kept the blanket clutched tight, heading toward the bed nearest the fire. “You want to use an innocent animal as bait?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “For you,” he muttered, looking up at Jaskier. “For our journey.”

Jaskier swallowed and nodded. Our journey. 

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

Geralt turned back to the fire, and Jaskier climbed into bed, turning to face Geralt’s back. He wanted to ask when he would go to bed when he would rest. What he was thinking, staring into the fire? Jaskier tried thinking elevated, witchery thoughts but all he achieved was imagining the way that Geralt would arch his back when he was being ridden, and that wasn’t at all productive. 

Jaskier fell asleep as Geralt remained still, warming in front of the fire. 


	3. The Bride II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of plot happens, Jaskier falls in love with three ladies, and he sates his thirst for .2 seconds before Geralt fucks it up for him. You lucky ducks get a double chapter this week, so on Thursday get ready for The Bride III. (It's a short chapter, but it's...it's good y'all.) 
> 
> Everyone in the comments is lovely and thank you so much for all ur sweetling words. I appreciate them and Jaskier is jealous of my notoriety. He doesn't have a praise kink and neither do I, god damn it.

By the time Jaskier woke up, Geralt had disappeared from the room. There was a small moment of panic that didn’t subside until Jaskier made his way outside the House and saw Roach still tied up in the stable. The witcher might keep all his earthly possessions on his person at all times, but he would never lead Roach into danger if she had a safe, warm place to spend the day. 

Going into the stall, Jaskier fished in his pocket for a lump of sugarstone he had nicked off a table, holding it out to the beast. 

“Don’t tell the mean witcher, alright, darling?” Jaskier murmured, rubbing her neck. He leaned down to kiss the white star of her muzzle and turned away, walking into the streets. 

This was the way it usually went. They got to a town and went their separate ways during the day. Jaskier strumming his lute, drawing the occasional crowd and collecting a few coins along the way. Geralt doing...whatever witchers do when investigating the local monstrous fauna. 

Jaskier hummed as he turned down the block again. Standing in front of one of the small bakeries was Arliss, looking far more fetching in the afternoon than she did last night, and that was saying something considering that Jaskier had already _definitely_ dreamed about how her mouth would move against his. And her hands - strong and a little rough, her arms, toned and defined. Oof. Jaskier could die happy if he got to kiss her a few times.

Jaskier smiled, plucking a few notes as he approached her. 

“My lovely Arliss! Noble and strong, bright-eyed, she of broad-shoulders, a voice like rain in the night.” He grinned and bowed a little, noting with amusement that she seemed to be smiling at him, at the very least not angry at him. A very nice change of pace. To be greeted with a happy countenance!

“So you’re a bard,” Arliss commented, eyebrows up. 

“I certainly wasn’t a noble, down in the mud with my companion on a horse.”

Arliss hummed, still looking bemused. Jaskier strummed his lute, used to pulling teeth when it came to conversation. At least Arliss fucking smiled at him. He had been traveling with and without the damn witcher for nearly four years and he had never so much as pulled a smile out of the man. Maybe his mouth relaxed once, and after a few funny jokes he had watched Geralt turn away in what he hoped was amusement, hiding his smiled, perhaps, but...alas. 

Her smile was so fucking nice too, a little bit crooked, her bright eyes twinkling in the noon sun. 

“How long are you in town, bard?”

“Ah, a few days. Long enough to take care of a few things,” Jaskier said, plucking a few chords. 

“Oh?” Arliss asked, taking another bite of the hand pie that smelled, frankly, sinfully good. Probably soaking in grease and butter. “Like what?”

Jaskier grinned. That was his in! Perfect. He was too good at this. “Well, I was hoping you could tell me.” He took a step closer, conspiratorial and quiet. “What do you know about the bride of the river?”

Arliss, to her credit, didn’t bat an eyelash on her pretty face. She shrugged, took another bite of her hand pie, and stared Jaskier down. “She’s only a danger to those who don’t know her ways.”

“And what ways are those, pray tell?” 

As Arliss gave him a keen look, Jaskier gave her his most winningest smile. He strummed a few chords and then tucked the lute behind his back, leaning in towards Arliss again. “You said yourself that she’s a threat to men when it rains. That can’t be the only time the bride comes out to hunt. Travellers rarely stop for too long by a river in such bad weather.”

“She’s a man-eater,” Arliss relented, finishing up her pie. “And eats only men. It’s well known that she enjoys the rain, and prowls at night. She can be avoided easily, and usually is left alone by all but fools seeking glory.” She brushed her hands off and shrugged. “I don’t mind her, but...if the witcher’s looking for a payout for her head I don’t doubt that the alderman would offer a paltry something.”

“Is that so?” Jaskier smiled, eyebrows up. This had gone easier than he thought! There was a moment where he wondered if it was _too_ easy, as monster hunting was rarely something that went well even on the best of days, and the way that Arliss had spoken of the bride seemed resigned, but no matter! “And where can I find the alderman?”

After Arliss had given him directions, a promise to attend his performance at the House later tonight, and her advice on the best meat pie at Harrie’s, Jaskier made off towards the eastern edge of the village. He arrived at a house that fit Arliss’ description and found it teeming with visitors. People lined up outside the home, most of them wearing black and carrying some kind of cake. 

Jaskier knew that if there was one thing that he was good at it was assuming he was important enough to get into any celebration, funeral, feast, or party. 

Plucking on his lute and explaining that he was there to sing a dirge or ode or two, and he was not at all a liar or a thief looking to steal some apple cake, he slid into the home. To be fair, at the mention of apples his mouth watered and he began to wonder how many he could fit in his pockets.

It didn’t take long to sidle up to the very austere and rather young widow, who seemed to be taking all of this particularly well, except for her annoying sister who seemed intent on receiving every guest regardless of stature or position. Jaskier eventually had to elbow the bat out of the way to stand face to face with the alderman’s wife. 

“So, so sorry for your loss, my lady,” Jaskier murmured, doing his best to look very, very sad and very, very pretty. The alderman’s widow was lovely, her dark eyes lined and not at all red. All that, and this house was quite warm and seemed exceptionally fine. “I am but a humble, passing bard, and I would be honored to compose-”

“You’re traveling with the witcher?” Her voice was sharp. Not angry, or even upset, but direct. Jaskier had forgotten how much he enjoyed being barked at and this lady’s mood was quite fetching, even if it was a little unpleasant. He barely had time to wonder how fast news got around before smiling at her again. 

“That I am, traveling with the noble white wolf, the famed Geralt of-”

“Fine,” she cut him off with a wave of her hand, grabbing his arm and leading him away from the celebration. Her sister looked delighted, and Jaskier could see the scheming older woman already at the front door, talking about grief and despair and how hard it would be for all of them, and her especially. Jaskier was about to comment when the widow shut the door, leaving them alone in a fairly tiny larder with just vegetables for company. 

“Well, this is-” 

“I want you to leave.” She said, her grey eyes flinty. “I’m alderman now that my husband has had the decency to fuck off, and I don’t need you or the witcher ruining this town.”

“Gladly, my lady alderman, ma’am,” Jaskier tucked his lute away, bowing gently, taking her hand. “But perhaps we can stay one more night to take care of that river-bride? We heard a tale-”

“Shut up.” She jerked her hand away, glaring. “The bride is nobody’s problem but those who refuse to listen. We all know what happens down at the river, and none of us are stupid enough to go looking for her.”

Jaskier was smiling, but still exceptionally confused. 

“Pardon me, lady alderman-”

“Vasha.”

“Vasha, my lady.”

Vasha glared but allowed it. Jaskier continued. 

“I would hazard that your husband has fallen victim to this bride-” Vasha snorted, rolled her eyes. “And it seems like it would be a kindness to the town to remove her, as she seems to be causing quite a bit of damage to morale and men.”

“If the men are stupid enough to ignore the truth, they deserve to die. That includes my dead, dumb husband, who didn’t have the decency to stand by the river earlier in our marriage and instead made me suffer through five years of his bullshit.” Vasha said, glaring at Jaskier. The bard, for his own sad, sad part, thought that Vasha looked exceptionally lovely when she was vicious and felt his mouth get rather dry, realizing just how close he was to the mourning widow. 

“Well, if-”

“I will not pay you for her head.” Vasha poked a finger against Jaskier’s chest, forcing him up against the larder’s shelves. A few turnips rattled in their bowls. Jaskier’s eyes went wide. Vasha’s hair was dark, with a streak of white at her left temple. Slightly older, dignified face, bright eyes, no-nonsense attitude. Jaskier hated to admit he had a type, as that would admit to having a preference, but Vasha was checking a lot of boxes, and they were already in a compromised space. Emotionally (he hoped), and physically.

He swallowed, raising his hands slightly. Vasha stared at him. He smiled, shrugging, tilting his head to the side just a little bit. 

Vasha narrowed her eyes, looked him down and then up. “Fuck it.”

She grabbed his doublet and pulled him down to kiss her. Jaskier wouldn’t say he was surprised, but perhaps this was unexpected? Either way, whatever it was, Jaskier would be damned before he let a beautiful, emotionally vulnerable widow kiss him without responding eagerly and full of passion. 

His hands found her waist as hers slid under his soft undershirt and he wondered what fool would ever leave Vasha’s side to go tromp around a dirty, cold, muddy riverbank at night. She had absolutely no problem maneuvering them into a corner and just as he was helping her hike up her mourning dress, the larder door opened. 

Vasha snatched her skirts away and immediately pushed them down, turning to face the intruder. Jaskier put his hands up, smiling brightly at Geralt. 

Vasha snapped, “What are you doing?” as Jaskier breezily exclaimed “Hello!”

Geralt shook his head, stepping to the side as Vasha pushed past him, into the hallway. Jaskier was still smiling as he stepped out, rearranging his tunic. “Really, Geralt,” he muttered, hitting the witcher’s chest with the back of his hand, “you could have knocked.” 

Jaskier looked over at the silent Geralt, who seemed to have a funny expression on his face. Jaskier supposed that while he did often brag about his charms it might be difficult for the witcher to see them in action. While Jaskier didn’t get the same kind of people in his lap that Geralt did (to be absolutely fair there was a very specific type that went after witchers on cold nights) he had to conclude that the witcher was just shy seeing proof his of his prowess in action. 

Jaskier smirked, reaching over to tug on the leather swordbelt laid across Geralt’s chest. 

“Come now, witcher, no need to-ow, ow! Ow! Geralt!” 

Geralt had grabbed his hand and bent it back, not really that hard, but Jaskier still winced as he shook his wrist, skipping back a few steps to adjust the case for his lute. 

“That was unnecessary!”

“So is fooling around with the widow in the larder,” Geralt hissed, leaning in. “You’ll get us run out of town, _again_.”

“It’s not like she’s even married at this point!” Jaskier whined, rubbing his hand. He followed Geralt out of the part, walking easily in the broader man’s wake. People didn’t just part for the shoulders, it really was something about the wolf eyes and two swords really captured people’s attention. Jaskier fixed his lute case as he walked, leaving a lingering glance over his shoulder at Vasha, even though she was pointedly looking away. 

“Absolutely ruined my chances to sleep in a real bed,” Jaskier murmured, jogging up to walk next to Geralt. “Not that we would be doing much of that-ow!”

Geralt had hit him in his chest, a light backhand that didn’t really hurt, but Jaskier was sure that the man only pretended not to know his own strength just so that he could get away with bruising Jaskier’s sternum. Jaskier winced, rubbing just below his collarbone. “Could you stop that?”

“Stop talking.”

“I’m literally paid to talk. It’s as if I asked you to stop sword fighting.”

“Don’t think you won’t be doing that soon enough.”

Jaskier groaned, following Geralt into the streets. 

“I promise, Geralt, I’m only going to be useless. Swinging a little blade around like a page in knight’s armor, a real fool you’ll make of me, oh, hello darling.”

Geralt had led them to a small stable where a selection of horses were being fed. One of them, a mostly grey mare with white and black dappling, was a little out of her pen, being brushed by a tall stablehand. Her mane and tail were black as well, and she had darker socks along her forelegs.

“She’s older, sir,” the young man said, obviously too smart or too stupid to call Geralt by anything less than an honorific. “But she’ll treat you right. She’s still hardy, and still as strong as she was two years ago.” 

Jaskier had forgotten the sword fighting and was instead fishing in his pockets for a remnant of the sugarstone he had fed Roach earlier. He approached the horse, which calmly flicked her ears back to front, and then bent her head down to snuffle into his palm. 

“She’ll do,” Geralt muttered, passing over a few coins to the man. “Can you stable her until we leave?”

“Not a problem, sir.” The man said. Jaskier only heard this interaction through a soft daze. His own horse. He hadn’t had a mount since he was a child, and even then…

He swallowed, looking over at Geralt. The witcher was absolutely not looking at him, and Jaskier knew it was partially because Geralt hated being thanked for anything. He wasn’t sure about the other part, but he’d worry about that later. 

“What’s her name?” Jaskier asked, looking at the stablehand. 

“Kamiel,” he said, smiling a little. “But you can rename her if you like.”

“Oh, no, no. Kamiel is a noble name. Very good.” Jaskier muttered, grinning like a fool and stepping to her side, rubbing her neck gently. He glanced up at Geralt only to find the other man had left the stable altogether. Jaskier suddenly felt slightly guilty that while he was fondling a hot young window in food storage, Geralt had been searching for a horse. Jaskier took a deep breath and stepped away from Kamiel. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier nodded at the stablehand, who smiled and led the mare back into her stall. Jaskier took a deep breath and went out to the street, standing next to Geralt. 

Talking about money and repayment now would be gauche. And unfair. They worked together, and it wasn’t as if he had ever really wanted for anything while he was traveling with Geralt. Sure, some creature comforts were left to the side, but that was to be expected on the road, in search of adventure. Geralt more than made up for it. 

Before Jaskier could open his mouth, Geralt glared at him. 

“Don’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t going to.” Jaskier grinned, looking up. He resisted the urge to elbow Geralt, or nudge him, or even kiss him, as all three were high on the list of things that would get his hand popped off his wrist. He chuckled and glanced over at the witcher. 

“We should get back to the House,” Jaskier said, stepping around Geralt and heading towards their lodgings. “Doubtless we have some words to exchange.”

“I don’t want to hear about the widow.”

“Thanks to you, my friend, there’s very little to tell,” Jaskier admitted, his hands in his pockets. “And I’ve found only a few tidbits about the bride, but it seems like all the ladies don’t mind having a wicked bitch as a neighbor. Keeps the men in line, apparently.”

Geralt grunted, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was a grunt that said ‘please continue’ or a grunt that said ‘I knew all this already.’ Hard to determine the different grunts, but Jaskier was sure with applied practice he would be able to decipher all twenty-five different varieties. Only a matter of time. 

“So nobody is willing to pay for her head.” Geralt shrugged. 

“Not so fast, dear witcher,” Jaskier said, smiling a little. “We simply haven’t met the right person.” 

Geralt shook his head. 

“If she’s not hurting the village-”

“We know she is. The bride just killed the last alderman!” Jaskier protested. “Even if a monster has a selective victim pool, they’re still murdering people.” 

Geralt narrowed his eyes. Jaskier knew that while Geralt hated being argued with, he hated being wrong even more. This required delicacy and, perhaps, a song. 

“I bet,” Jaskier said, voice lower, leaning into Geralt as if he was telling a particularly fascinating secret. “That by the end of tonight’s performance we have a buyer and a hefty sum of money waiting for us.” 

Geralt grunted. Jaskier grinned, pulling out the notebook he kept tucked into his belt and beginning to scribble down a few verses. “Just wait,” he murmured as they walked back to the Bent Bow. “A large coin purse, for the head of the bride.”


	4. The Bride III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the promised extra chapter! Man did you guys just...really not like the last chapter or something? So little love for plot!!! i got like 20 bookmarks and 4 comments. rude. anyway here's wonderwall. 
> 
> here we go, rein it in boys, Jaskier's going to get fucked...up. he's going to get fucked up. it's not sexy. unless... ? ?

Later in the evening, Jaskier would wonder why he did it. Why wasn’t he content to just let Geralt be right, go about his witcher way, and move on? Did he feel guilty? Did he feel like he needed to pull his weight a bit more in this relationship?

It wasn’t like getting a heap of coins from a thirsty bar full of men was difficult. He penned a few additional verses about the bride of the river, half an elegy to the dead alderman, and a rousing stanza dedicated to the victims of the monster, and the money that would satisfy Geralt seemed to pour in. At the chorus of ‘toss a coin to your witcher,’ another dozen coins went into the kitty. Even Arliss, dear, strong, trying-not-to-smile Arliss, gave up a little copper.

Jaskier went over to where Geralt was brooding in the corner and sat, pushing the small wooden box full of coins across the table. Geralt looked at the box, then Jaskier, and then measured the weight of the box in his hand.

“So,” Jaskier had said, “are we on the job?”

He regretted saying that now, as he regretted so many other things.

Now, Jaskier was standing on the edge of a river, holding his lute, and half-heartedly plucking out a tune. Geralt was, presumably, somewhere nearby, but how was Jaskier to know for sure?

He regretted very much not kissing Geralt. He also regretted not climbing him like a tree. He thirdly regretted not getting a handful of his ass before he was abandoned rudely on the side of the river.

He hummed a melody, plucking on the chords as he absently walked down a rocky stretch of the river. The only way to bring the bride out of her home was to lure her. She wouldn’t be swayed by food, nor money, nor the flesh of a witcher, (the sight of a shirtless Geralt would have drawn Jaskier out of the very grave, but her loss,) so apparently, poetry was the only thing that would draw her out of the watery depths.

“This,” Jaskier said, hoping that Geralt was near enough to hear him with his strange senses and weird cat-ears. “Is why I offered to teach you the lute.”

There was a bitter irony in that. It wasn’t swords and signs that would bag them a payday now. It was all down to Jaskier and how well he played.

Jaskier sighed and found a suitably dry rock to sit on. He arranged himself to face the river, which was calmly flowing down to the sea. He shifted the unfamiliar lute upon his lap and tweaked a few of the strings. A few minutes later and he began to strum a chorus of a popular drinking song. He hummed the first verse and then sang,

_“Come on men, there are drinks all 'round  
and we'll have a real good supper,  
And should a man walk with another man's girl  
he's a fool if he doesn't fuck her!  
_

_Spend money if you've got some,  
if not go find some more,   
So you can spend the whole of it  
on some dirty little whoooooore!”_

Glancing up, holding the last note, the only response from the river was the sound of a pair of frogs, doing what nature intended somewhere in the nearby reeds. Jaskier sighed.

“Tough crowd.”

He shifted on the rock, annoyed at how cold his ass was getting, and began to pluck out another song. This was in a lower key, an older folk song. He couldn’t remember where he had learned it, and he sang it now with a softer voice, something that wasn’t really suited for bars and taverns, something that would get you ignored quickly because of how old the tune was.

_“Said the rook to the wolf, in a long low howl,_  
_Said the moon to the sun, fading the far road down,”_

This wasn’t too bad, he thought, humming the bridge, smiling down at his instrument. It wasn’t even that cold. The air smelled sweeter, something like cinnamon. He wasn’t getting tired but...there was something rather warm about this place.

He shifted on the rock and looked up. The river had gone still as a lake. There were no ripples, no movement, even the amorous toads had moved on. Jaskier swallowed and glanced back, hoping to see Geralt’s eyes reflecting in the moonlight and instead saw nothing but grass and a few weeds.

Turning back to the river, he sang a few more lines.

 _“It’s a long road home, my darling,  
_ _A long road home.  
_ _Through heat and through cold,  
_ _Through trails made of stone,  
_ _The long road home.”_

He didn’t feel...sleepy was the wrong word, he thought as he sang. Perhaps it was dazed. He wanted to keep singing. The old folk ballad had run out of words, so he made them up. Mist was rising. It felt heavy like it was dragging him down. He pushed at his eyes and looked at the river, his mouth falling over the verse.

 _“And by the ocean I waited,  
_ _For my love to be sated,  
_ _A sad song, a love song,  
_ _My heart will be strong-”_

He was standing, walking towards the river. His steps were steady, his hands sure around the lute as he continued to play.

 _“Said the witcher to the night, in a deep low growl,  
_ _Said the bard to witcher, astride his horse, Kamiel,  
_ _The work is fierce, but my heart beats strong,  
_ _The work, it is...it-”_

His feet were in the water, ankles covered. It was still warm, like walking into a bath. He faltered, finding the words missing, finding that he felt warm all over, calm and serene even. The mist before him took a shape, that of a woman - an exceptionally beautiful woman if Jaskier had any opinion on the matter. He reached out for her cheek and she grabbed his hand, a sharp sting of lust spiking through him.

His mouth went dry as she guided his hand back down to his lute. There was something mythic about her, something that made Jaskier want to kneel and worship.

**“Play.”**

Her command echoed through the bard. It filled him up. He had no more will to fight, and if he would speak, he wouldn’t know that he should. Instead, he smiled at the bride, jaunty and confident, and of course, he would play, wasn’t that just what he was made for? Wasn’t he created to play? Wasn’t he the witcher’s bard?

She kept his hand on him, like burning cloves and a warm fog, and Jaskier played another song.

“ _Oh, lost river, I walk your shores in the dark of night.  
__And you, fair lady, rising from water in naught but moonlight._

 _Darling, sweet river, I’ll sing over your muddy grave,  
__Dearest bride, I’ll lament for you twelvemonths and a day-_ ”

Wasn’t there a lyric he was supposed to sing when he saw the bride? Wasn’t there a sound or a noise that was needed? Jaskier smiled and pushed his lute to the side, not remembering that Geralt was waiting for a chorus of “Toss a Coin to your Witcher,” which they had previously agreed meant that Jaskier had the bride in his sights.

Instead, Jaskier only felt a warm love, a deep love. Cloves and cinnamon, something else dark and soft, raw and earthen. He lifted his hand again to the bride’s face, and this time she didn’t demand that he play for her. She kissed him and suddenly the world went cold.


	5. The Bride IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go the long chapter. i loved the response to #4 let's keep that up babes. do short chapters get more likes? do i need to split up any chapter over 2K? i'll do it, don't tempt me...but, love, did you like my banter? do you enjoy my jokes? i'm just a humble bard, standing in front of an archive, asking them to love me. 
> 
> please enjoy enchanted jaskier being even more of an absolute idiot.

“Breathe.”

There was a voice...somewhere. Sharp and demanding, that of a woman, but Jaskier couldn’t place it. He couldn’t really think either, and when a fist slammed down on his chest, he coughed hard and then turned over onto his side and wretched river water, dirt coating his mouth. 

“Jaskier?”

The cloying smell of cinnamon came back to him, and he shot up, scrambling away, fingers digging into mud. 

Arliss, her shirt soaking, her hair falling over her face, peered at him, eyes wide. 

“You saw her.”

Jaskier would have liked to imagine that in a time of such pressure and nobility, having just fought off the bride of the river, he had the wherewithal to say something witty, to brush it off, or to even just smile. Instead he turned to the side and threw up again, water and little bits of weeds soaking into his trousers. Cute. 

Arliss winced, looking over her shoulder. 

“He’s alright.”

Jaskier blinked and looked up. 

“Ah,” he muttered. “Witcher.” He sniffed, rubbed at his nose, still feeling something strange, some heat in his stomach, some sweat on his neck where he ought to feel cold. Were his eyes open? Did his tongue move? “Took your sweet time.” 

“You were the one who wanted to use a code word," snapped Geralt. 

“Yes, well. A lyric, technically.” Jaskier was beginning to see that maybe he had been wrong, but he wasn’t about to admit that. There was nothing wrong with a good secret code hidden within a song. A long and storied history of bards delivering secret messages through chords and bridges. Instead of explaining this to the very grim and soaking wet Witcher, he coughed, which he felt more appropriate. “Get the weird fairy girl or what?”

Arliss shifted, looking over at Geralt. He set his jaw and gestured towards a strange shape by the water that Jaskier had previously thought was a misshapen log. Jaskier stood, shakily, and Arliss stood with him, keeping her hand on his arm. Bless her. 

He walked towards the body of the bride, frowning. He didn’t know why he wanted to look. Was it a morbid fascination? Was it for the ballad he would absolutely compose about this event? Was he still under her spell? Jaskier didn’t know or care, and he went to the body anyway. Fairy. Fairy-light, lovely, darling, did he hold her in his hands or did she hold him in hers?

The bride was beautiful, plump and strangely soft, inviting. Her skin was a light green, her hair dark and long, and even now had the appearance of a ripple on a river; silkwater. Jaskier bent down and ran his fingers through her hair once before a strong, broad hand pulled him upright and away from the body.

“That’s enough.” 

The cloves had come back, warm like mulled wine, home like the smell of cider in midwinter. Jaskier covered his mouth with his hand, as if he were trying not to be sick, but he was instead smelling the deep rich spices that clung to his skin, the sweet smell of the bride that made his heart pound, that made his mouth dry up and water at the same fucking time, that made him lean into Geralt. 

Perhaps that wasn’t the magic, he thought as he was pulled up the bank of the river, the borrowed lute nowhere to be found, perhaps that was just Geralt. Perhaps that calm, that twisting feeling, that not-calm at all, perhaps that was just the witcher.

Arliss came over and stood next to Jaskier as Geralt rolled the bride into a large piece of cloth, covering her up modestly. Jaskier couldn’t stop watching him, his eyes on Geralt’s hair, his back, his ass. Was Arliss holding him up or was she holding him back?

As Geralt walked up the riverbank, back towards town, Arliss explained some of the details. She had been on the ferry, had heard him singing. Jaskier tried not to sound too pleased, but it really was a high compliment. She came for his music. Did he not draw all to him? Was he not beautiful and talented and deserving of love? 

He stared for an extended moment at Geralt’s ass. Yup. He deserved a whole lot of something. He sighed and leaned against Arliss. 

“Wait,” he blinked and sat up straight, frowning. “I did what?”

“You walked on the river,” Arliss repeated. She had her arm slung around his waist, keeping him upright. “On the water itself.” Jaskier blinked again. 

“I did what?”

“You might as well be talking to a tree,” Geralt growled over his shoulder, walking towards the Bent Bow. “He won’t be himself until the magic wears off.” 

“Mm. Magic.” Jaskier laughed, running a hand through his hair. He really was just staring at Geralt’s ass now. He was shameless. He should feel similar to embarrassment about this, but honestly, he just felt elated and mildly turned on. A light sensation of horniness. There was probably a name for that. Did Geralt know what was going on? Did Geralt know that he was staring at his ass?

It wasn’t fair. 

“What’s not fair?” Arliss asked

Jaskier blinked. He had just said that aloud. Huh. What else had he said aloud? 

“You’ve only just started,” Arliss said, amused. “I suggest you be quiet.”

“Oh, right. Sure.” Jaskier blinked and turned to her again. “I walked on water?”

Geralt laid the body of the bride on the ground, far more gently than Jaskier had seen some young children handle their beloved puppy. “That’s sweet,” he said aloud, registering that he spoke. He grinned and turned to Arliss, expecting praise, but the woman just shook her head. 

“Go get the rest of your coin, witcher.” She shifted to hold Jaskier better. “You can return for your bard after you have the money to pay for a bath.” 

Geralt looked over at them. Jaskier winked. He tried to wink. Your bard. He liked that. Geralt was his witcher, of course, but “your bard” sounded just like...really fucking great. Jaskier, still attempting a wink, had his face scrunched up, possibly on both sides and definitely not on just one. Geralt shook his head and stalked back into the Bent Bow’s main tavern. 

As soon as Geralt was in the building, Jaskier darted forward, skipping out of Arliss’ reach to look over to the bride. 

“She’s dead, Jaskier,” Arliss said, not stopping him. 

“Oh, I know. I nearly joined her. I nearly...she nearly joined me?” He knelt down, uncovering her face, sighing gently. “She’s beautiful.”

“Aye.” 

Jaskier pulled out a slim knife, more like a pocket blade than a dagger, and leaning over the corpse, cut off a lock of her hair. He pushed the dark, seaweed-dark green tress into his pocket and stood, sniffing. 

“I think I loved her.” 

“She’s not of this plane, bard. She doesn’t know what she is.” Arliss was far enough back, he hoped, that she wouldn’t notice what he had done. He stood and walked back to her. 

“You saved me?”

“You remember that?” 

It was coming back to him, slowly. Sort of. He walked out to the river to meet the bride, to marry her, to wed, to love. He closed his eyes, frowning. He couldn’t remember what he had said or done, what strange magic had pulled him out to the bride or under the water. 

He supposed he cut a romantic figure, mourning over a fairy. Arliss put a hand on his cheek and he sighed, leaning into her touch. She was incredible and beautiful, strong and lovely. 

He opened his eyes and leaned into her, about to kiss her, but she pulled back, her hand sliding to his shoulder. 

“Stop.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier mumbled, too compromised to be ashamed, just confused. “Sorry, I-”

“Get some sleep, Jaskier,” Arliss said, smiling slightly. She glanced over his shoulder, and Jaskier followed her gaze. Ah, Geralt. Glad to see that jawline back in action.

Arliss laughed, ad Jaskier looked at her. 

“What?” He asked. Had he been thinking aloud again?

“You should take better care of him, wolf.” Arliss said, turning Jaskier around and pushing him towards the witcher. “Take him to his bed. I’ll bury the body.”

Jaskier, standing next to Geralt, saw a crowd of men looking at the body, but not getting near the bride. Some covered their mouths, others averted their eyes. He felt a surge of anger, of vindication. Good, they should stay scared, stay angry, stay weeping. He was about to step forward, about to speak when Geralt put a hand at his nape, pulling him back. Arliss walked around Geralt to take the bride, glaring at the men as she stooped to pick up the demon, holding her across her chest, like a large child and not like a bride at all. 

If she and Geralt exchanged words, Jaskier didn’t hear them, still upset. 

He finally found his tongue. “Geralt-”

“Quiet,” the witcher growled, holding him back. Jaskier swallowed, clenching his hands into white-knuckled fists. The hair, like a silk ribbon, curled in between his fingers. 

“They wanted her dead and they can’t even bring themselves elves to look at her?” Jaskier hissed through gritted teeth. 

“She was killing them,” Geralt said, far kinder, Jaskier thought, than the men deserved. “They’re scared.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, and after a few minutes, when Arliss was fully away from the scene and the men had dispersed, he turned to Geralt. 

“She didn’t kill me.”

“She tried, you idiot.” 

“Not nearly as hard as others have,” Jaskier sulked as Geralt manhandled him into the courtyard behind the tavern. “I believe that you have tried to kill me with more earnestness very recently.”

Geralt led him to the lower level, where private rooms allowed for bathing, the water heated from an underground boiler. His hand against Jaskier’s neck was insistent. Jaskier realized, somewhat belatedly, that he was once again soaking wet. Geralt pushed him into one of the rooms. 

“Get clean. We leave at dawn.”

“And when is that?” Jaskier asked, petulant. “Three hours?” 

“Just about.”

Jaskier cursed without much enthusiasm and started to strip. Geralt shook his head. 

“I hope you’ll hang my wet things by the fire,” Jaskier said as he lowered himself into the bath, strangely annoyed. There was a feeling in the back of his chest, something clawing at his throat. He glared at Geralt. 

Geralt, in response, only grunted, but he did pick up Jaskier’s clothes. 

“Towels-” Geralt said, gesturing. He had a look on his face like he wanted to say more and simply couldn’t bring himself to do so, like he didn’t know how the words would form together, like he didn’t think he knew how to speak any more. Jaskier rolled his eyes and tossed a bar of soap at him, hitting him square in the chest. 

They were both surprised by this, and Jaskier silently commended his excellent aim. He was very pleased by the small smudge on Geralt’s armor. Perhaps he should take up archery instead of swordplay. 

Geralt, who looked like he had never been surprised a day in his life, seemed unable to form words. Jaskier rolled his eyes. Gods all fucking bless his stupid silent witcher. 

“Go to bed, you fool,” Jaskier said, sinking into the water. “I’m not about to drown myself. That would make your job too easy.”

Closing his eyes, praying for patience, or possibly the self control it was obviously taking to _not_ join Jaskier in the shallow pool,Geralt left. Jaskier was sure that Geralt was having a revolution or something, finally understanding a core essential part of Jaskier was his excess of dramatics but his restrained follow through. Not that he had a lack of follow through, just that he pursued it selectively. 

Jaskier couldn’t get rid of the heavy feeling in his belly. There must have been spice in the soap he used, because he still smelled cloves, something warm and heady. He bathed, troweled himself dry, and used one of the larger towels as a robe, pulling it around himself as he walked up to the room he was sharing with Geralt. 

He got to their rooms and closed the door, not surprised to see Geralt awake, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. He had changed into his spare outfit, and the pants appeared to have a bit of embroidery over the side seam that expertly highlighted the man’s exceptional thighs. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, going over to the fire and touching his hanging clothes - still damp.

“What?” Jaskier asked over his shoulder, looking at Geralt. “Surely you must have something to say or you won’t be standing there like a woman waiting for her lover to return.” He looked over at Geralt and grinned. “Am I that lucky lover?”

“You’re still under her influence,” Geralt said archly.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Jaskier was rummaging through his pants. He found the cut lock of hair, still hanging in his pants pocket, and left it there. He turned to face Geralt, annoyed and more interested in the cut of his legs than he should have been. Jaskier swallowed and let his eyes linger on the shape of his thighs before dragging his eyes back up to Geralt’s face. 

Geralt was staring at Jaskier, annoyed and angry. Jaskier wondered, briefly, if he had noticed the long look Jaskier had taken over his legs. 

“It was hard to miss,” Geralt growled.

Shit. Thinking out loud again.

“Shit.”

“You’re affected the bride’s magic,” Geralt said, helpfully. Jaskier groaned. _Helpfully_. He was basically repeating what he had just said a second ago like it was fucking news. As if Jaskier didn’t fucking know. As if he didn’t fucking realize. 

“I don’t think you understand what’s happening,” Geralt said, staring evenly at Jaskier. Jaskier took advantage of the moment and gave Geralt another very appreciative once over. 

“Stop that!” Geralt growled, stepping forward.

“What!” Jaskier yelped like he had just been burned. Geralt was looming over him now, standing broader and bigger in front of him. There must be special trick that they teach witchers to make them appear to take up any space in which they are standing. A very useful trick, however, Jaskier snapped, “I hate it when you loom.”

“Stop looking at me like I’m a piece of meat.”

“Darling, I don’t know if you’ve looked at yourself recently, but you are a five-course meal, ale, and entertainment.” Jaskier grinned, spreading his arms a little. 

“This is the magic talking-” Geralt began.

“If that makes you feel more comfortable,” Jaskier cut him off. Wasn’t he feeling bold, standing up to the big looming wolfish witcher. “But it’s not, really.” At least he didn’t think it was. Did he always want to bite Geralt’s neck, right at the pulse point that became obvious when he was angry? Hadn’t he always really wanted to hold the man down and fuck him until he came, untouched?

Geralt swallowed and Jaskier nodded. 

Yop.

“Absolutely, not the magic,” Jaskier muttered, taking a step forward, towards Geralt. The witcher stepped back. 

Jaskier blinked. He had stepped back. 

“Geralt-”

“No.”

“No?”

Jaskier was still only in a towel, wrapped like a cloak around him. He stared at Geralt, smirking a little bit. Was Geralt uncomfortable? Was he angry? 

There was a nearly imperceivable shift in his face that hinted that Jaskier had said that out loud too. 

“Are you angry?” Jaskier repeated, just in case. Geralt took another step back, against the wall. 

“No,” Geralt growled. 

Jaskier took another step forward. “You sound angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Are you sure?” 

Jaskier was standing in front of Geralt, smirking at him, meeting his eyes. Even with Geralt’s shoes on, he wasn’t too mismatched against him, and Jaskier stood nearly as tall as the witcher, even if he wasn’t nearly as...beefy. _Mavala_ , he hoped he didn’t say that out loud. Geralt didn’t seem like his expression had changed, so perhaps he was safe. 

“Because you seem,” Jaskier shifted, looking Geralt up and down again. “Pretty angry.”

“I am suffering this bullshit because you nearly died tonight,” Geralt hissed, making a very, _very_ scary face and showing off his very, _very_ pointy teeth. “And your mind is so addled that if you weren’t saying these things to me it would be some greater fool who might actually indulge you.”

“Gods, Geralt, I love your teeth.”

“You _what_?”

Alright, that one he definitely said aloud. Might as well lean in. 

“Your teeth.” Jaskier opened his mouth, tapped one of his own canines. “Yours are...very nice. Would I say that about anyone else?”

Geralt set his jaw, glaring. Jaskier swallowed, holding his gaze. 

“Will you be a fool for me, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, putting a hand on Geralt’s chest gently. He pushed against the broader man, and Geralt, already against the wall, leaned back. “Indulge me?”

“No.” Geralt growled, eyes still hard. 

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. He considered Geralt carefully, looking over his face. Was there disgust there? Was it anger? Why wouldn’t Geralt touch him, take him to bed, kiss him, fuck him? What was stopping him? Was it men? Was it the dick? That wasn’t so bad, just required a different set of skills. Was it just Jaskier?

“Come on,” Jaskier said quietly, smiling. “Show me your teeth.”

He leaned in again, and for the second time that night, Jaskier was pushed back. Geralt had a hand in the towel, pushing Jaskier to arm’s length, his face impassive. Jaskier considered Geralt’s jaw, his mouth. He raised a hand to touch his cheek and Geralt pushed him again, towards the bed. 

Jaskier stumbled backwards, eyebrows shooting up. “Are you joining me?” He dropped the towel with little fanfare and no modesty, pleased that Geralt was getting a very fine view of his ass as he turned over. Let the witcher stare for once. 

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt growled, shaking his head. 

“And you’re missing out!” Jaskier snapped, sliding under the covers. He huffed, lying on his side. Had he imagined Geralt’s eyes dragging low? Had he seen the witcher falter?

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

Apparently not.

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbled, annoyed. There was a heaviness to his movements, something making him slow, keeping his tongue thick in his mouth. Why couldn’t he just kiss Geralt? Why couldn’t he just demand the man strip and fucking have him? Would saying something break this, whatever it was, between them? 

Jaskier turned away from Geralt, annoyed and with a strange feeling in his belly. He hated this. Was he still affected by the bride? Did he imagine disgust on Geralt’s face, or was it something else?

He curled up, closing his eyes tightly. The smell of cinnamon had never left him.


	6. Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late! i haven't written much, but it happens. i have one more chapter in the bank so i should uh....finish that. start chapter eight. enjoy one (1) dumb sad slut bard.
> 
> also please tell me you liked this as it's a Risky chapter and uh....i need the encouragement please.

When Jaskier woke up the next day, he immediately turned over and puked. He barely had anything left in his stomach but it still turned inside out first thing in the morning. Honestly, was it even morning yet? He blinked and turned onto his back, blearily sorting his early morning thoughts.

His dreams had been murky and dark, cold and wet, grasping and -

Jaskier dry heaved again, this time falling out of bed.

He lay on the floor a moment longer. This was fine. He was totally, absolutely fine. Nothing to see here.

A few minutes later, he finally got up and dressed. Again, Geralt’s things were nowhere to be found, but Jaskier wasn’t surprised. He’d go find the witcher brushing Roach in the stable and that would be that. They would be off to unknown lands full of adventure!

Or they would be trekking through a plain full of brigands heading directly to a well-populated and dense city. Same thing.

Jaskier sighed, rubbed his eyes, collected his things, and left the room. As he made his way through the tavern, he noticed a lot of patrons and a conspicuous lack of women. It seemed like the men were still celebrating the death of the bride, and Jaskier had to tamp down his sick feeling again.

She had been eating people. She was a monster. She killed people. He made a face. What’s done was done. He’d have to live with that

He slipped outside and went around to the stable on the far side of the courtyard. The same holster was there, dark hair braided tightly to his head, full, lovely mouth. Jaskier swallowed, annoyed that the stablehand was so fucking hot when he was on the verge of leaving, and stepped forward.

“Good morning!” He said cheerily, smiling at the young man. In fairness the man was likely only a few years younger than he was, but still. Jaskier had an air of worldliness.

The hand stepped into the main area of the stable, nodding. “Morning to you as well, Mister bard.”

“Oh, it’s just Jaskier, Mister Bard is my dad.”

The stableman smiled, raising his eyebrows. He almost laughed, and Jaskier’s earlier morning sickness was entirely forgotten as he looked at the man’s smile.

“Marek,” the man offered, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jaskier.”

It was all so pleasantly formal. Jaskier skipped ahead and shook Marek’s hand, perhaps a bit longer than absolutely necessary and definitely with more flourish than is standard with a handshake. The man did have the most lovely dark eyes, like falling asleep in a warm bed, or the color in between the stars.

“Mm,” Jaskier hummed, smiling. “I’m on the lookout for the White Wolf - the pale-haired witcher that I accompany on travels.”

Marek nodded, walking along with the stable. “He’s gone.”

Jaskier’s smile was frozen in place.

“He’s what?”

“Gone,” Marek said again, this time disappearing into a stall. Jaskier, mouth dry, following him.

“Gone,” Jaskier repeated.

“Aye, didn’t say where.” Marek’s voice came from the stall. “Left her for you, though.”

Marek walked out with a grey horse, fully tacked and brushed. Kamiel whinnied and ducked her head towards Jaskier, obviously searching for the sugarstone he had yesterday.

Jaskier stepped forward and dug in his pockets for the sweet he had swiped off the tavern, holding it out to the horse and looking again at the holster.

“Did he say anything?”

“To me?”

Jaskier smiled tightly. Of course, Geralt wouldn’t be so kind as to leave a message. There was enough here that Jaskier could assume that the witcher intended for him to return to court. Marek must have read the look on his face wrong.

“I promise if he had said something I would have passed it on…”

“No, no,” Jaskier murmured, taking Kamiel’s lead. “It’s just like him to leave like this.”

Marek watched him a second longer and then nodded, retreating into the stable. “Good luck on your journey, bard.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, walking Kamiel out of the stable. So Geralt wanted him to go back to court? Fuck him. Absolutely, no kind words, fuck Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier checked his instrument was secure, the short sword which he could barely wield was within reach, and that the small lock of hair that he had taken from the River Bride was still in his pocket. He hoisted himself up on the horse and turned her north, away from the river, and towards Novigrad. Fuck Geralt.

He thought about dashing out of the river town, like a hero in a story, but he realized he had nowhere to rush too, he didn’t want to startle Kamiel on their first real date, and that he was very unlikely to run into Geralt by sheer willpower and denial. Instead, he allowed himself to walk Kamiel the same pace that Geralt walked Roach.

As he sat on his horse he pulled out the hair again. He frowned and held it up to his nose, frowning. It didn't seem like the smell of cinnamon or cloves had left, bit out seemed otherwise inert. It was just a lock of silky, dark green hair. It wasn’t magic or compulsive anymore, he no longer felt that strange tingle when he held it.

The realization that it used to have an effect on him at all was a startling one and he was beginning to consider maybe that Geralt was right for not giving in to his mangled proposals last night. Still, unfair, and Jaskier knew that he would have said yes to Geralt at any level of cognitive function, even if his reasoning wasn’t quite sharp.

He was angry at himself, though. If Geralt didn’t want to be found, well…

It was strange, though, how they continued to run into each other and end up together. I had happened three times in four years, and the odds of two wandering souls on the vast Continent continually finding each other...It seemed strange, but Jaskier chalked this up to willpower made manifest. Surely there was something behind daydreaming about the witcher’s hands for hours on end.

Rolling the hair in his thumb and forefinger, Jaskier had an idea. He reached into his bag and found a bit of rosin, the kind he used to prepare his lute strings. He rubbed the sap over the hair, turning it even glossier. He twisted it with his fingers, cleverly braiding it into a small length of woven rope. With a few more minutes of work, he had woven a small bracelet, which he promptly slid on his wrist.

It was almost like a ring, he thought, smirking. Maybe he was marrying the bride after all. He pulled out his lute.

“ _When the bride of the river killed me,  
__I gave her my last breath,  
__she took all I had left.  
_

_She dragged me under,  
_ _she kissed me tender,  
_ _when the bride of the river killed me.”_

Hm. Jaskier thought. Not bad. Might be a bridge or something. He got out his book, Geralt forgotten (or at the very least, deliberately ignored) and began to scribble.

_“In a small town with all men married  
_ _None lasted past the wedding  
_ _As sure as I do sing,_

_They walked out to greet her  
_ _Couldn’t wait to meet her  
_ _In a small town with all men married_

_“Then when they kissed the river bride  
_ _Each mouth filled with water_  
_flooding like the rising tide  
_ _Each man a feast to slaughter.”_

Jaskier hummed a few more bars, lost in his work. Kamiel was a smart horse, he figured. She would know to keep to the path. Besides, the forest was starting to thin, and they were entering a more open grassland. It was lush, with grass and the slight slope of a hill in the distance. Across the horizon the smudge of mountains, as if Jaskier had taken wet ink and pressed it on the edge of the world’s page.

That was good, he thought, flipping to a new page and writing it down.

He looked up a few hours later and only then realized how very, very wrong he was about his horse’s sense of direction or fidelity to the path. His eyes widened as he realized he could barely see the forest and wasn’t even sure if that was the forest in the distance or just a big topiary. Fuck.

“Kamiel?”

He pulled on her reins and stopped her from moving forward. He looked around, looked behind him, and then sighed. _Fuckity_ Fuck.

“Oh, sweetheart-” he sighed, sliding off her back and looking around as if being closer to the ground was going to help him. “-where did you take us?”

Kamiel whinnied and Jaskier wrapped her lead around his hand. “Come on then,” he muttered, trying to guess his way back to the path and the relative safety of knowing others were traveling along the same direction.

At least he knew that the path he was supposed to be on was along a northwestern axis. He turned a little bit more west to compensate for Kamiel’s wandering and set off. If he was lucky he’d find the path before dark.

It turns out that he was not so lucky. Instead, he found a stump that seemed to be as good a place as any, had plenty of grass for Kamiel to enjoy, and the ground was still sun-warmed enough that he wouldn’t need to worry about a fire yet. He could pick at the dried bread and fruits he had packed.

As he ate his food, leaning back against the side of his horse as she settled for the night, he ignored the pit of worry in his stomach. That, he reasoned, was hunger, and was perfectly normal. It came from a whole day of travel on small rations and no conversation. Honestly, nothing to worry about.

He glanced at the sword before he finally settled to sleep. Should he have it nearby? In case…

He laughed. In case what? Someone was scared by the sight of a blade? What was he going to do, throw it at them? Absurd. He snorted and instead tucked his lute nearby, cuddling against Kamiel. He’d find the path tomorrow, he’d find a town after that, and all would be well.

Tomorrow came and went, and Jaskier was no closer to finding the path than Kamiel was to finding her inner magical abilities. The sun set on the second day that Jaskier had spent firmly off the road, with no water, wells, or hope in sight.

“Fuck!”

Jaskier yelled, looking around as the again. He groaned and leaned forward, against Kamiel’s neck. “I’ve really done it this time, huh?”

Kamiel, that blessed beast, sweet creature, didn’t know the difference between this time and any other time, and instead took an interest in a nearby shrubbery and spared Jaskier the judgment.

He sighed and slid off his horse again, looking around for something-anything that would help him out. Finding absolutely fuck all, Jaskier groaned and ran his hands over his face. This was, somehow, both his fault and Geralt’s fault and he was annoyed that he couldn’t think of a good reason it was Geralt’s fault at all.

“It’ll come to me, I’m sure.”

Jaskier used the very meager, and frankly disappointing, amount of camping gear in his packs to set up camp, and had wandered in search of firewood. With the fire blazing, Kamiel resting with her foreleg up and relaxed, Jaskier pulled out his lute, humming a few more bars of the next absolute banger, _Bride of the River_.

He had been working on this, however, for nearly two days, and he got bored. Such a fickle mistress was inspiration. He put aside his lute, rubbed his hands over his face and looked to his left. The short sword lay there, almost inviting.

Jaskier, who refused to do anything for his own good and usually subsisted on a diet of spite and good sex, picked up his instrument again and plucked out a few more chords. The sword seemed to wink at him.

“Fuck, alright!” Jaskier groaned, tucking away his lute again and reaching for the sword. “But only because I don’t have an audience.”

He refused to think that Geralt might be - Lords of Mavala all forbid - proud of him, but at least the damned man might feel satisfied.

Instead, he stood up, kicked aside an innocent twig, and took his sword some steps away. He held it out and practiced the forms that Geralt had taught him, or at least...made an attempt to teach him. Even Jaskier, who could cut up a nice jig on occasion felt baffled by the footwork.

“Fuck you, Geralt,” he muttered, annoyed that he wasn’t learning and his arms already felt tired. Couldn’t they have started with baby witcher moves? Soft witcher steps?

Instead, Jaskier feinted a fake parry, ducked under an imaginary spear, and stabbed an imaginary soldier with the business end of his sword. He turned and chopped at a bush, and was moderately pleased to see that it fell apart. Huh. Maybe he did have some talent. Was bush-slaying in high demand?

He stepped forward, parried, and then turned on his heel, swinging his short sword wildly.

The clang as his sword hit another was enough to make him yelp. At least he held onto the sword as his unknown assailant pushed him back towards the fire.

“Well, hello,” Jaskier said, his voice, once again, absolutely not at all rising above its normal register.

“Hello.”

The woman who came into the light was tall, nearly Jaskier’s height, with long, loose honey blonde hair, a slightly hooked nose, and eyes that Jaskier wasn’t sure were green or grey, but he was positive he could get lost in for hours. She had broad shoulders, a trim waist, and her clothing had golden embroidery, richly decorated with flowers and ferns. She looked, more or less, like a very fucking hot noble, and Jaskier knew that he was a whole entire goner.

“Hel- _lo_ ,” Jaskier said again, now grinning openly at this magnificent creature who seemed way too confident with a blade to be comforting, but whom Jaskier would love to seduce _immediately_.

“All alone then?” She asked, pushing her sword down, and causing him to fall to his side.

Jaskier smiled, shrugged. “Just me and my horse.”

“Ah, good enough, isn’t that?” She stepped forward, raising her blade, and Jaskier, feeling Very Fucking Bold, raised his to meet hers. He trained against the White Wolf! The erstwhile Butcher of Blaviken! Surely he had some skills-

She twisted her grip and ducked under his edge, pushing it away with her own blade as she slid against his chest, inside his arm.

Nope. No Skills. None. Jaskier was momentarily gobsmacked and suddenly very horny.

“You should teach me that move,” Jaskier muttered, his mouth dry. He didn’t realize he had been disarmed until the mysterious woman turned around, holding her blade to his throat. Jaskier wasn’t sure if his heart was beating because he was nervous or because he was wickedly turned on.

_Oh._

“What’s your name?” She asked, one hand in his doublet, tilting his chin up with the flat of her sword.

“Going to call it out later?” He said thickly. Something about being threatened in the middle of the night by a tall, stunningly gorgeous lady with a sword was totally his thing. He might die right now but at least he would die doing what he loved. Saying stupid shit to people with swords in their hand.

“Your name.”

“Julian.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Will the lady honor me with hers?”

She tilted her head to the side, smiling still. She took a step back and gestured. “I am Majilamira.” She bowed, “But you can call me Maja.”

Jaskier was about to respond when his head was covered by what he could only assume was someone’s dirty dishtowel. He was pulled back and dragged towards his camp, and he suddenly heard the cacophony of a whole band of raiders and dogs, and maybe a half dozen sets of feet. He was thrown to the ground and someone with rough hands tied up his wrists and ankles.

He thought immediately of Kamiel and hoped that his gorgeous horse wouldn’t pay the price for his stupidity. Jaskier barely resisted, and after a few more minutes of unseen activity, the hood was jerked away. Maja stood in front of him, the coppery thread on the hem of her high-slit dress reflecting the light of the now-much-larger campfire.

“You stand before Maja of the Lowlands, Bandit Queen and Lady of the Shadows. She of many tongues and fire-steps! Marquise of madness, Duchess of daggers!” she announced to him, as her followers - a rather well-fed bunch of bandits, perhaps a dozen, - laughed and jeered her on. She crouched down, smiling, and Jaskier, as if embodying all his sins, couldn’t help but think about how lovely she was and wondered what her legs looked like under the rather tight leather pants she had possibly painted on her calves.

She hummed a little, a dagger appearing in her hand as if by magic. She used the tip of it to tilt Jaskier’s chin up, meeting his wide eyes with hers, laughing and inordinately pleased.

“Welcome to my domain.”


	7. Bandits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally a 4000 word chapter but i've broken it up and you'll get a double feature this week! which is good because it allows me to CW for sex at a chapter where people can skip it and not lose the plot. so if it se.ems like this should have been longer, there you go. at least you only have to wait until thursday for bandits 2
> 
> thank you so much for your encouragement, it's so amazing. i love reading all these comments. let's give the thirsty fans (me) what they want (comments). xo tiger. 
> 
> please know that i, like many of you, would die for maja. and jaskier...just might.

“Oh, now look at that-” Jaskier moaned, watching with no small amount of despair as a pair of Maja’s bandits dumped out his meager belongings. They had at least waited until morning to ungraciously paw through his things, so at least he could take account of what was being taken.

“That’s a fine horse,” Maja said, pointing at Kam. Jaskier’s attention was drawn away for a few seconds as he observed the rather romantic figure that Maja cut in the sunlight, her hair braided in an intricate plait, a new fine jacket on. It was too bad she was picking her nails with two daggers instead of the usual one, and it made her hands seem quite dangerous.

“It was a gift from an old friend,” Jaskier admitted, looking back to his notebooks and musical keepsakes being strewn around. “And, hey! Hello!” Jaskier waved a hand (they had graciously untied his wrists after the night) “please be careful with that book, it has all my songs in it!”

As Maja asked, slightly delighted, “You can sing?” the two men had taken up Jaskier’s lute case where it had been secured to Kamiel’s side.

“Not the lute!” Jaskier pleaded as they opened the case. “That’s delicate! Another gift from another friend I’m sure is dead now-” (a lie) “who gave it to me specifically to sing about his dead community!” (a truth, more or less.)

Maja gestured, and the two men put the lute back, setting it to the side.

“None of my swords can sing,” Maja said, musing. Jaskier had noticed that she always called her brigands something like that -my swords, my blades, my hands. It was another tick on the romantic column for Maja. “Except for Rizit, and he gets shy. Perhaps you can play something.”

“Oh, of course-”

Maja gestured and Jaskier found the lute in his lap.

“You mean right now?”

“I didn’t mean to wait.”

Jaskier nodded, considering. He shifted and took out the lute. As he was looking it over for damage (still in excellent condition, thank any god that might possibly fucking care), he thought about what he should sing. Would Maja appreciate a bawdy song? An old fable set to a jaunty tune? Jaskier decided on an old favorite.

_“When a humble bard  
_ _graced a ride along  
_ _with Geralt of Rivia  
_ _along came this song._

_"From when the White Wolf fought  
_ _a silver-tongued devil  
_ _his army of elves  
_ _at his hooves did they travel”_

Maja didn’t look impressed. Nevermind, onto the chorus! This always got a rise.

_“Toss a coin to your-”_

“I’ve heard this one,” Maja interrupted his song. Jaskier, no stranger to being cut off, blinked and stopped strumming, eyes momentarily drawn to the Sharp Pointy Things in Maja’s hand that could fly out at any time. He swallowed and nodded.

“Well, you flatter me, my lady,” Jaskier said, shifting up so that he could bow his head. “For I am the humble bard of the song-”

“Aren’t you sick of singing about yourself?” Maja asked, smirking.

Jaskier blinked. What a ridiculous question. As if he could ever be bored with himself. Not to mention most of that song was about Geralt anyway and there was no universe in which he was bored of that man.

“Absolutely not!” Jaskier managed to sound both affronted and dignified, a very hard line to walk, but he did it with style and panache. And a raucous grin that perhaps would endear him to this beautiful and absolutely Marvelous creature.

“I want to hear something else,” she demanded, standing up and pacing in front of Jaskier. A dagger appeared in her hand, spinning in her palm, flitting over her fingers in a mesmerizing pattern. “Something about...love.”

“Love?” Jaskier grinned, excited. He could sing about love. He could sing a love song while making love. He could absolutely fuck and sing, and he had on more than a few occasions. He gestured at his feet. “I would like to stand, if you don’t mind. I play better standing.”

Maja gave him a calculated look, and Jaskier barely noticed her hands move before he felt the bounds at his ankles loosen. He glanced down, saw one of Maja’s slim blades at his feet, and pushed himself up.

“Well, that's a neat little party trick-” He murmured, pushing himself to stand up. His ankles hadn’t been tied tightly, but his feet were a little numb, and as he took a step forward he quickly found himself falling towards the ground.

He stopped, quite suddenly, an arm across his chest, another hand holding onto his doublet, preventing him from a very intimate meeting with the ground.. He found himself, within a second, upright and very, very close to Maja, more or less held upright by her strong, capable, and delightfully muscled arms. He blushed He could feel it. He was turning red, and he was getting self-conscious as he continued to be held close to Maja’s chest.

“Oh, well,” he blustered, totally and unfortunately very much In Love as he had quite thoroughly fallen as soon as she had caught him. Not Again. Jaskier, how do you keep tripping into these sorts of situations?

“Thank you.”

Maja smirked. She fucking, God-damn smirked like it was a joke, like she was pleased, and Jaskier’s stomach turned over four and a half times and he wanted to melt into the ground rather than admit that he would Literally Die for Her.

“Mm.”

Oh no. Growly one-syllabic blade babe was so his type it wasn’t fair. Jaskier wouldn’t say that he was getting hard, but he was sure that if he just concentrated a little harder he would be Ready to Go in two seconds.

“Yes, right. A song.”

Maja tilted her head up, smirked. “A love song.”

Shit. Shit sucking ballsacks.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, not at all worried about this whatsoever. “A love song.”

She stepped back, sitting down on the overturned stone that she had perched on earlier. She gestured, and Jaskier had to tamp down the flare of annoyance and luster she did so with imperious expectation. God, he loved a fucking top. Lords all knew that Geralt wasn’t ever going to deliver in that department.

Jaskier took a deep breath and launched into a love song, something that wasn’t quite bawdy, wasn’t too old either. It was well known in certain parts of the world, in the Southern Coast, but not really as recognized around here.

_“Love is kind to the least of men,  
_ _Although his heart may break  
_ _If he hates nine, he will love ten,  
_ _For Love is kind to the least of men.”_

She smiled, tilting her head. Jaskier added a quick flair to his strumming and grinned at her.

 _“If he be drunk or sober still  
_ _all know of love’s deep ache  
_ _if he says, '_ Of love, I've had my fill!' _  
_ _His heart yet does what it will_ ”

The song continued; the lamentations of a heart that would not stop loving. The love that was known to all. Everyone loved, didn’t they? In their own way? Jaskier finished the song.

_“Now, love is kind to the least of men,  
_ _for all that love may take,  
_ _and all that it demands,  
_ _he surely will seek love again  
_ _for Love is kind to the least of men.”_

By the time he ended, he had attracted quite a crowd. Well, at least six others which was just about half, so honestly, not bad. He bowed to the applause, grinning. He didn't even ask for donations, which was his usual mode of operation, and felt very restrained and impressive. Maja seemed delighted, and she allowed the praise for a few seconds before shooing her swords away.

“Mm, well,” Maja said lowly, getting close to Jaskier, standing in front of him. “I think that was enough to earn your keep for a while. Get on your horse. We’re moving out.”

“Just enough?” Jaskier winked. “Just for supper?”

“Don’t push it, bard,” Maja said smirking. “Let’s not count ourselves safe for much past dinner time.”

Damn that should not have been sexy, and yet here Jaskier was, turned on, once again. He swallowed and nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was a sharp whistle that rent the air, and Maja’s attention was diverted from Jaskier. She looked him up and down, seemed to decide something, possibly about his character, more likely about his skills in bed (at least he hoped) and decided to leave him alone and unharmed. She made her way back into the tick of her band, and Jaskier was left, more or less alone.

There were some bandits about but they didn’t stop him as he went over to Kamiel, checking her over. She seemed to. recognize him, at least a little bit, and Jaskier fished the curry brush out of the bag on the ground, starting to brush her down.

She stood, steady as an oak tree, and he was singing to her, and he knew Kamiel was listening because her ears followed him as he moved. It wasn’t long before one of the brigands, a stout man with dark hair twisted into long locs, came up to him.

“Saddle your mount,” he said, picking up the blankets and passing them into Jaskier’s hands, roughly. “We’re leaving.”

“Oh, already?” Jaskier asked, only joking.

The brigand glared at him. “Now.”

“Oh, sure, right,” Jaskier muttered, putting the curry brush away and laying the blankets over Kamiel’s back. “Where, exactly?”

The man was already jogging away, and Jaskier sighed. He didn’t expect to know everything but something would be nice. He finished tacking up Kamiel and led her in the direction of the erstwhile brigand.

“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” He hissed, finally making his way to the end of the train of bandits. He could barely see Maja in the lead, her blonde head sticking up over the rest of the troupe. The man glared at him, and ahead, another short whistle came.

“We’ve found someone on the road,” he explained. The group began to jog, military-file, through the brushlands. “Keep up.”

Jaskier, not too proud to admit that his made-for-pleasure body was Not Up to the task of running for five miles, especially considering that the doublet he was wearing was a rather fine silken thing. He quickly hoisted himself onto Kamiel’s back and urged her forward, keeping pace with the last man in Maja’s line.

It took about thirty minutes to reach the portion of the road that suited Maja; there were large boulders, and a bit of a rising hill. It was treacherous for horses and left plenty of blind spots for the bandits to capitalize on. The brigands split up and Jaskier dismounted, quickly tying Kamiel to a gnarled tree, jogging over to Maja.

“So, what’s going on?”

“Hush,” Maja said, glancing over at him. “Go back to your horse, sweetie. Mommy’s working.”

The color absolutely drained from Jaskier’s face. The low, husky way that Maja spoke obviously Did Things To Him, but this was bordering on torture. He swallowed, glanced at Kamiel, glanced at Maja, glanced back at his horse, who was not looking at him, either interested in a patch of grass nearby or looking away in shame.

“Did you not hear me?”

“Oh, I heard you-”

“Move it, then.” Maja glared at him, her eyes flinty.

Jaskier resisted the strong urge to kiss her (likely avoiding death in the process) and slinked back to Kamiel, patting her neck gently. He kept one eye on Maja, and noted that the whole group of highwaymen were communicating in birdcalls, cricket sounds, and chirps. If he hadn’t seem Maja trill a little warble with the very edge of her tongue, he wouldn’t have believed it himself.

As Jaskier watched, he heard a low commotion, the sound rising over the hill. A carriage, most likely Maja’s next mark. He left Kamiel and snuck ahead, going to a vantage point where he could see what was happening.

Over the crest of the hill, Jaskier saw a single sturdy horse clop over the hill. The beast was drawing not a carriage, but a large cart, and it looked like a family’s homely possessions were stacked on top of it. There was a woman at the head of the cart, a couple children on it, a youngish man - probably no older than seventeen, judging by the spots on his face, walking along the rear.

A family. Obviously relocating. No adult man in sight. Jaskier pressed his mouth. He was far enough away from Maja and the carriage that nobody would see him. He felt a sudden spike of sympathy for these people, and for the first time he was angry at Maja. His face flushed, upset as he was, and he began to creep down the hill, hyperaware of the crickets and bird chirps around him.

He couldn’t let Maja steal from an innocent family. He carefully picked his way down the hill, spotting Maya lying in wait, her daggers out. So what if this would ruin his chances. Some things, he reasoned, were worth going cold at night.

The family approached, and he saw Maya sit up a little, shoulders back, spine straight. Jaskier was sure this was it, when she would attack or spring forward or give an order. Instead, she turned and fixed him with a glare that sent blood to his cock and a chill up his spine.

He was so fucked.


	8. Bandits 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello beybaes (that's you, thanks to one slightly tipsy commenter) maja returns to step on feelings and also jaskier. this is the second half of the chunky chapter i had originally written, so you get it today! congrats! i love reading your comments and knowing you're enjoying the same things that i enjoy writing. it feeeeeds me. gimme more of em. 
> 
> also, again, if you like this style and enjoy thirsty sword lesbians, please read tamsyn muir's gideon the ninth. i'm not tamsyn muir and they are not paying me to say this, but i wouldn't mind that corporate ca$h. taz if u read this i love you please step on me in gideon skull makeup thx. 
> 
> (also c/w sex)

Caught in the power of Maja’s glare, Jaskier stumbled. Then, because of the nature of hills, he began to slide downwards faster than his feet could find purchase.

He yelped as he tripped, sliding on the dirt, the stones loose under his feet. Going down onto his hands and knees, he was about to scramble up when he felt a hand clamp over his mouth, and some of Maja’s hair drifted over his face. He tried to push her hand away but he was held tight against her chest.

“Hush, bard,” she said softly. They were tangled together on the ground, and Jaskier suddenly became extremely and desperately aware of the slim, cold pieces of steel that were strapped to her thigh. He was so distracted by the knives (there were _so many,_ honestly what did anyone need with that many knives? _)_ that he almost ignored the fact that Maja’s absolutely excellent legs were pressed against his hips.

Instead he watched, wide-eyed, as a few songbirds trilled, and the carriage continued down the road, totally unharmed and even unapproached at all.

Jaskier didn’t realize that the bracelet he had woven for himself had gotten stuck further up his arm and was now cutting off circulation to his hand. He wiggled a little bit, nudging his ass against Maja’s leg, and tugged at her hand again.

“Not a word, Julian,” she whispered, letting him go. He turned to glare at her and then slid the bracelet down to his wrist. The clove smell was still there, and it was almost calming. He looked up, and the carriage was nearly out of sight, having been left completely unmolested.

He turned to Maja, who was sitting back on her hands, legs spread, a very dusty bard in between her thighs. She smirked.

“Not rich enough for your tastes?” Jaskier muttered, rubbing his wrist.

“We don’t steal from widows, you idiot,” Maja said.

“Who do you steal from?”

“Nobles, the military, banks, if we can catch a mage unawares, they’re usually fed off the fat of the land, and tend to abandon treasure in favor of preserving their own life, the cowards”

“What have you got against mages?” Jaskier asked, brushing off his arms.

“They steal children.”

Jaskier glanced at Maja, pausing. She was still leaning back, head tilted to the side. “Truly?”

“Took my sister when she was fifteen. She sent letters for the first year and then…” Maja shrugged. “Nothing.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean-”

Maja reached over, grabbing Jaskier’s doublet and pulling him close. Her eyes were stone again. “I know what happened,” she hissed. “Don’t presume to know my story, bard. You can hardly keep your own from ending.”

Jaskier nodded, eyes wide. Maja was very close. Extremely close. Close enough that he would feel her breath on his cheek. He clenched his fists and nodded, trying so, _so_ hard to not kiss her. He swallowed and nodded again, shifting closer to her, his hip against the inside of her leg, his shoulder against her collarbone.

“Good.” Maja tilted her head up, evaluating him. Jaskier, who surely must have either lost his mind or given his arms some strange agency to move on their own, put a hand on Maja’s side, very gently. This was it. The Big Gambit. Would he get his hand cut off? Maybe. Would it be worth it? Absolutely.

Maja’s gaze never faltered. “You can leave,” she said quietly, dropping her hand, but not creating any more distance between them. “There’s the road.”

Jaskier blinked. That was not the reaction he was expecting. He shifted a little, turning to face Maja. “What?”

“You’re not worth much, you’re loud, and you look like you haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.” Maja smirked. “You can go.”

“You don’t even want my horse?”

“Horses are much harder to hide, and her tracks would be obvious to any bounty hunter. It would be pretty stupid to keep one around,” Maja explained. She still wasn’t moving away, and Jaskier grew bold and probably stupid, putting a hand on her thigh. Her gaze darted from his hand to his face.

“I said you can go.”

“What if I don’t want to go?” Jaskier asked, sliding his arm around her waist, leaning in. He wasn’t kissing her yet, but he was very close. He could feel his heart beating faster, the bracelet around his wrist feeling like a caress of water, something like silk.

“Why would you stay?”

“I need a new muse,” Jaskier muttered, leaning in now, his mouth nearly on Maja’s jaw. “And you’re quite the vision.”

Maja smiled. He could feel it, their cheeks nearly pressed together. He pulled back and watched her, eyebrows up. She was still smiling at him, and he hoped that she was flattered. He grinned and then kissed her, squeezing her thigh, pulling her close.

She made a soft noise, pulling herself against Jaskier, and he admired the way her body, muscled and shaved off in sharp planes, moved against his. Her arms went over his shoulders and he gently laid her down on the dirt, hoping that there weren’t any rocks under her.

“My swords-”

Jaskier kissed her again, cutting her off. “I’m sure you have a whistle that means ‘fuck off,’ or ‘get lost’,” he murmured, sliding his hand up her long tunic-dress and across the waistband of her pants. She laughed, and his hand slipped under the fabric, going low. He paused when he realized that what he had in his hand was not quite what he had expected.

She had gone still under him, but her arms remained over his shoulders, the weight of her blades resting against his collarbones. He chuckled, leaning in to kiss her neck, pointedly ignoring the dust that had settled there while she restrained him.

“However you like it, muse of the desert,” Jaskier said, making room for his hand to move across her length. He didn’t hesitate, delighted and surprised. It was that absolute joy of the reveal that made him happy, and it wasn’t as if he was picky about the kind of equipment someone had. He was, after all, skilled in all manner of pleasure, and Maja was absolutely Smoking Hot.

She let out a breath that she had been holding and thrust her hips up, into his hand.

He was thinking too much when he should be, quite literally, fucking.

Maja had pulled her pants off and Jaskier was pushing his down, and he was wondering if he should resort to spit or if maybe they should wait until they got to the tent, but he was Really Thinking Way Too Much about this.

Instead, Maja seemed to realize that Jaskier was fumbling, and as soon as both their cocks were out, she spat on her hand and grasped the two of them together. Jaskier made a yelping noise and Maja fucking laughed at him.

“That’s not funny,” he groaned, thrusting into her hand, one of his arms braced on the ground, the other grasped onto her absolutely stunning thigh. She lifted her leg a little more, hooking it over his hip, and Jaskier thought it was the hottest goddamn thing anyone had ever done to him in his life.

She laughed as he moaned against her neck, and she spit on her other hand, now holding both hands over their cocks, jerking them off slowly.

“Go on,” she murmured, arching her back a little. “Faster.”

Jaskier needed absolutely no more encouragement than that. Her hands were tight and slick, and the feeling of her dick against his was something he would literally dream about, perhaps tonight. He could feel her pulse, her breathing, see her eyes fluttering. He set his knees and went faster, pressing his body down on hers.

It didn’t take long. Her hands were hot, his dick smeared sticky precome over hers, and in between the soft inhales and moans, it was clear that neither of them were in the mood for an extended jerk off on the ground. Jaskier reached down and pressed a hand against her hip, digging his nails into her perfectly tanned skin, a shade of terra cotta that Jaskier would have liked to see every day.

She gasped, and came into his hand. Jaskier laughed at the delight of it, at the beauty of her neck arched backwards, at her honey hair strangely soft and whispering against the ground. He leaned down to kiss her neck, still pushing his hips against hers, finding that friction, that pressure he needed.

He came with a groan, and then a giggle, nipping at her neck and rolling onto his back. He had his hand gently by his cock, covered in their come. It wasn’t even dark out.

Jaskier thought, rather out of his mind, that he was grateful that he could look over and see the sloping curves of her cheek, the slight angle to her nose. He must have been smiling something like a fool, because she turned to him and immediately rolled her eyes.

“Don’t go witless on me now, bard,” she mumbled, shifting to sit up.

“I love how you call me bard.”

“Mm,” Maja smirked, cleaning herself up as best she could, pulling her leather pants up and her dress down. Jaskier raised his eyebrows and nodded, impressed that she had covered almost all of their mess while he was still pretty debauched.

“Head back to camp,” Maja said, imperiously and very, very sexily. “Wait in my tent.”

Jaskier scrambled up, liking the sound of this. He leaned in to kiss her and she allowed it, trying very hard not to smile as Jaskier nipped at her lower lip.

“Get out of here,” Maja said again, pushing at his chest. “We’ll be back soon.”

Any qualms Jaskier might have had about the bandit queen had been lost to the rather sweet and soft feeling after a very pleasant (if quick) fuck, and he made his way back to where the remainder of the bandits had been left. They watched as the bard wandered around, a little lost and very much reimagining the ways in which the afternoon had taken a few swift turns, before one of them tossed a tent at him and told him to make up the queen’s bed.

He was too busy composing a new smash hit, a very sexy and lusty bop he’d call _Queen of the Badlands_ , to notice the bedroll being lobbed at his face, and was sent to the ground, gasping, holding onto a very tight pack of cloth as the bandits laughed.

“See who’s laughing later!” He gasped, getting to his knees and looking at the complicated fabrics in front of him. “I’m the one having a nice lie-in after fucking your boss and you’ll be off...collecting rocks! ”

One of the brigands, the shorter, terse one from earlier, scoffed. “No, bard, she’ll be fucking you.”

Jaskier almost swooned. God, he loved a top.


	9. Brigands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jaskier said trans right and maja stepped up and yelled trans rights and everyone nodded and also proposed to her because it's what she deserves. she turned them all down, but kept the rings, obviously. 
> 
> thank you so much for all the encouragement, and remember kids...be gay do crime. 
> 
> also comments. do comments and crime.

Jaskier wondered, in the middle of the night, as Maja was inside of him, if maybe he had died and gone to heaven. She had wrapped his wrists in silken bands, holding them behind his back as he knelt down, ass up. He groaned as he came for the second time that night, his legs shaking. Maja had restrained herself the first go-round and immediately shoved his chest against the ground, fucking into him hard as she finished. 

Jaskier, sore, aching, and with literally not a single thing in his head, witty or otherwise, allowed himself to be pushed to his side and kissed roughly. He smiled, leaning in as much as he could without the use of his hands, and was pleased that the deep kiss turned sweet. 

Maja, arms over his shoulders, pulled him onto her chest, reaching back to undo the knot that had held his arms back. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Jaskier groaned, immediately turning onto his back and stretching his shoulders forward, reaching up. “I can’t say that wasn’t hot, but you didn’t leave a lot of wiggle room there, darling.”

“I like watching you squirm,” Maja said lazily, reclining on her side. If Jaskier hadn’t been totally used up by three rounds over the course of twenty-four hours he might have been hard. Such as it was, he was absolutely exhausted, and there were parts of his body that hurt in ways he had forgotten his body could ache, and he was so ridiculously happy that he couldn’t be bothered to care that he was currently failing to impress Maja, should she want another go. 

“Just like that,” she said, laughing. 

“What?”

“That look you get when you’re thinking too hard.”

“I won’t take offense to that,” Jaskier murmured, turning towards her, resting his hand on her hip, drawing his thumb over the crest of the muscle there. “As I have been used thoroughly and I’m at my best pre-coitus.”

“That’s the least sexy thing you’ve ever said.”

“You should see me in a barfight.” Jaskier yawned, pulling Maja against his chest. She twisted around and slotted her ass right against his very tender cock, and he groaned, leaning down to kiss her neck. “You witch.”

“I’ll let you fuck me later to make up for it,” Maja pulled the blankets over them, holding onto Jaskier’s arm, very pleased with herself. Jaskier sighed, arranged his arm and a pillow, and pulled Maja close, not thinking about the witcher at all. 

The problem was, telling yourself not to think about the witcher never made it actually easier to not think about the witcher. Jaskier tried to sleep, he really did. He was warm and well-fed, well used, keenly sore, and instead of passing out like he usually would, he was instead thinking about Geralt. 

It was bad. It was, in fact, fucking terrible. 

Jaskier hated himself for it, even as he held Maja, tried to sleep, counted down from one-hundred and thirty-eight, he still couldn’t get Geralt out of his head. He wondered, idly, if the witcher had cursed him on the way out of the river town, but that probably wasn’t the case. Could witchers lay curses? 

This was about when he fell asleep, annoyed and exhausted, and the smell of cinnamon lured him down. 

He woke up alone, which he thought was rather typical, but seeing as the tent was still up around him that had to be a good sign. He laid on his back and stretched, his body immediately reminding him of all the work it had done last night. 

He groaned and flopped onto his stomach, pushing himself up on all fours and stretching like a cat. 

Outside of the tent, dressed in only his undershirt, a pair of trousers, and some very weary hose, he stumbled to the fire. There were a few of Maja’s bandits around, and one of them passed him a mug of something bitter and strong, some kind of tea-slash-bone broth mixture, which he drank slowly. 

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you.” The man said, sitting down next to Jaskier. “Maja’s in a great humor.”

Jaskier grinned. “Well if there’s one thing I know how to do-”

The man groaned. “Your skills in bed are hardly the point here.”

“Oh,” well that was fast. Jaskier eyed the man, who shook his head, pulling his locs back into a very clever knot, creating an intricate pattern far faster than Jaskier would have thought possible. “Well, there must be something about me-”

“I don’t care.” The man said, standing, brushing off his pants. “This conversation is terrible.”

“Excuse me?” Jaskier was gobsmacked. Yes, this man had skin that almost glowed golden under his dark complexion, and _yes,_ his hair smelled like a sweet, nutty perfume, and _yes,_ Jaskier would gladly take both him and Maja to bed at the same time, but Still. “No need to be rude.”

“Just take the compliment and shut up about it.” He said awkwardly, frowning. “It’s not like her to get attached, so don’t count on it lasting.”

“Is that...a warning?” Jaskier was just confused. 

“Just letting you know.”

Jaskier was still sure it was a threat, but he was having a hard time figuring out what exactly he was being threatened with. Before he could ask, Maja came over the crest of a hill, silently loping along with a group of her bandits and a pair of dogs dragging a sled behind them, a large something covered by a fine cloth that appeared to be a curtain, tassels and all. 

The rest of the camp woke up as she approached, and Jaskier, still concerned about what the man had said, held back, watching. 

Maja laughed, talking animatedly, and Jaskier could swear he saw constellations coming out of her fingers as she gestured. A god damn vision. He was smiling as she stepped back and (Melitele, did she wink at him? He swore she winked right at him) with another sweep of her arm, pulled back the curtain. A large casket, a couple of boxes of what was likely very rich food, and a bag of coins, spilling open. 

It was barely noon, but the bandits cheered and set upon the food, divvying it up amongst themselves and leaving the coins and casket untouched. Maja sat on the barrel and this time she did wink at Jaskier, who felt bold enough to go up to her. 

“This seems quite a haul.”

“Heading to a monastery, if you’ll believe it,” Maja muttered, catching Jaskier by his undone doublet and pulling him down for a rough and incredibly hot kiss. Jaskier wondered, idly, if the casket could hold the both of them and if Maja would object to having a pretty bard in her lap, but he resisted the urge to ask. Instead, he grinned and kissed her again, putting a hand in her hair and holding it tight. 

“Mm,” Maja growled, a sound that went directly into Jaskier’s dick. “Save it for later, yeah?”

“Got plenty to go around,” Jaskier murmured, letting go and smoothing her dress along her shoulder. 

“Given thought to what we spoke about?”

Jaskier made a noise. “I want to stick around for a bit,” he said, leaning down to boldly pocket a coin. Maja, to her credit, didn’t move, although Jaskier saw the way her wrist twisted to bring a blade sliding along her arm. 

“Just the one,” she murmured, leaning back a little. 

Jaskier sighed, going over to the dogs and helping release them from their harnesses. They were passed off to handlers as Maja managed the casket over to the main campfire. “We’ll be safe here for another night,” she said as one of her blades went to find her a mug. “We’ll leave tomorrow. Now,” She finally got her mug and the casket opened. She uncorked the wine and allowed a small portion to pour into the cup. “We drink!”

The cheer went up, and Maja tossed the mug back, finished the entire dram, and grinned at the bard. Jaskier, to his credit, didn’t immediately get a hard-on, but absolutely flushed a very darling red, deciding then and there that he was likely going to get Maja’s name tattooed on his ass, because that grin was enough to basically own him. 

The drinking was accompanied by songs and dancing, and Jaskier found himself in high demand. Maja seemed to have a very liberal view of what was meant by ‘sticking around’ and encouraged Jaskier to kiss the pretty young Hallas, while she had another woman in her lap, the lady’s dress open enough so that Jaskier could very clearly see the dark, dusky nipple rising above her bindings. 

How the drink managed to last so long was basically magic, and a few hours after the sun had set there was still a few glass fulls left, and Maja, one glorious leg planted on the small wooden barrel, dared anyone who wanted to claim them to come and get them. 

Jaskier, a known fool and local idiot, bereft of his doublet and relieved of his lute, had decided (smartly, so, so smartly) that he was the man to take it. 

So he stood, opposite Maja, with the short sword he barely knew how to wield and an overinflated sense of confidence likely induced by the five glasses of wine, a full belly, and an exceptionally hot bandit queen with a grin that he would, generally speaking, die for. 

This was fine, right? It was going to be fine. 

He grinned at her, and she grinned right back. 

“Are you expecting mercy because I want you in my bed tonight?” She called, loud enough for everyone to hear, inciting a round of cheers. She twirled a blade around her fingers like it was a reed, and Jaskier was fighting the urge to salivate. 

“I knew you liked me,” Jaskier said, grinning. He raised his sword and attempted a slash, which Maja easily sidestepped. 

“I like the shape of your ass under my hand.”

“Ooh, tell me more,” Jaskier laughed, following her with the point of his sword as she circled him. “What else do you like about me?”

A blur from her hand and a small dagger landed in between his feet. He made a noise that was Not a Squeak, no sir, absolutely not, and Maja laughed. “I like that.”

“That’s just...that’s rude!”

More jeers from the bandits. “You should hear what he sounds like when he’s truly pierced!” Maja called out, making Jaskier blush. He was grinning. This was amazing. 

“Keep this up, darling, and they’ll all hear what you sound like tonight.” Jaskier stepped forward again, but his parry was met by a pair of her blades. She grinned at him. 

“Most of them already know!” She called, pushing him backward. 

“Tart!” he said, stumbling, turning to find her not where she had left him. He turned his head, circling. How did she disappear like that?

He found himself knocked to the ground, his legs collapsing as she smacked the back of his knee. Hard enough to cause himself to drop his sword, stumbling forward, catching himself on his hands and knees as Maja kicked his sword away. 

“Had enough, bard?” 

“You wish, bandit.” 

Maja let out a laugh that sounded something like a cat’s purr and the exact tone she made when she was having a particularly enjoyable fuck, and ran at him. Jaskier was able to counter her daggers, turned to the side, swept his arm up. It was a trick he had seen Geralt do a few times and by sheer goddamn luck he had replicated the move. Maja slid past him and then turned, ducking and throwing a dagger that nearly grazed his cheek. 

Jaskier might have had a hard-on. Might. He turned back to Maja, but she had disappeared. 

“What…?”

Suddenly, like a wildcat, Maja pounced on Jaskier’s back, driving him to the ground. It hurt, and Jaskier was no less hard. He twisted under Maja’s weight, her strong legs bracketing his sides, staring up at her. He was grinning up at her, even as she had her dagger to his throat. 

“What now, Julian?” Maja whispered, leading down. 

“Get off!” Jaskier even managed to sound upset about it.

“No,” Maja murmured, grinning, leaning down. “I’m going to split you open-”

“God, yes.”

Whatever else Maja was going to say was cut short by the clash of steel. She frowned and looked up, barely drawing her dagger back from his neck. 

She immediately stood and ran at the looming hulk attacking the bandits. Jaskier scrambled up, recognizing the broad shoulders, the set of the man’s back in dark clothing and leather. 

Geralt was fighting Maja, and he looked like he was trying to kill her. 


	10. Beset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man i'm sorry for the delay here guys. some bad news; i likely won't be updating this fic again for a while - working on original fiction and also...life? time? being creative right now is hard. 
> 
> that said, enjoy this chapter, and honestly, inspiration comes from comments so...don't count this fic out yet. i do have an outline, so the story is just...waiting to be written out. 
> 
> enjoy dumb slutty jaskier being...just like...so fucking dumb.

It was happening fast; faster than Jaskier had ever seen Geralt move, at least this close. Maja was a vision, a shadow in the dark, her feet barely touching the ground before slid forward, around, under, matching Geralt’s speed even without the kind of training he had. 

The rest of the bandits had finally gathered their wits, and the intricate collected dance that they did was incredible. Maja would feint, duck under Geralt’s swing, try to make it in close enough and get kicked out of the way only to have a man take her place, pressing on Geralt’s side before he could get the sword down on Maja’s head. 

Maja’s blades were dizzying, appearing and disappearing out of nowhere, flying through the air. Geralt literally caught one in his hand, tossing it back at her.

The ballet of it, the flash and slam of the sword fight, the strange powerful terrible beauty of it, mesmerized Jaskier for about thirty seconds more than it should have. He realized with a growing terror that in the amount of time he had spent admiring both Geralt’s shoulders and the slope of Maja’s leg, that either of them could have been killed. 

“Stop!”

Jaskier had recovered enough of his senses that he scrambled up. As he stood, his hand slipped in something wet, and Jaskier, too much of a coward, didn’t look at what it was. He was focused on Geralt, on the swift strikes, the clash of swords, the storm of it. 

“Stop!”

He watched as Geralt and Maja darted in and out of range, Maja’s longer arms giving her an advantage as she danced around the witcher, her blonde hair loose around her face. 

Jaskier gestured for the brigands to back off and, surprisingly they did. He was sure that it wasn’t him, that it was Maja sliding out of Geralt’s swings, communicating by some mystifying language that only her followers understood. 

Geralt, frowning, kept his sword up, turning around in a slow circle. He glanced at Jaskier and tilted his head up. 

“We’re leaving,” he growled, announcing it. Maja’s face flashed with confusion, and then betrayal. She snarled at Jaskier. 

“You know this animal?”

Jaskier had finally made it over to Geralt, standing in between the bandit queen and the witcher. He had his hands up, in between the two. They both had their blades out, sharp and glittering. Geralt’s sword was dark. Maja’s daggers dripped. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt forced out. “What are you doing?”

Jaskier turned to Geralt, glad to see that he hadn’t imbibed any potion or draught. His eyes were still gold inset, flashing in the darkness, pupils peaked like a cat’s. “I’m telling you to put your sword down,” he said, clearly, calmly, with any air of authority that he could muster. He turned towards Maja and gestured. “You too. Knives away.”

Maja, whose face could only be read as a mask of fury and betrayal, did as she was asked, stepping back. 

“I’m not in danger,” Jaskier said to Geralt, half turning towards him. “Maja has been helping me.”

“Not the least of what she’s been doing,” jeered a member of the crowd. Geralt twitched, turning around in a circle, glaring. Jaskier had the decency to blush. 

Geralt took a deep breath, finally putting his sword away. Jaskier was grateful for the sheer decency of the man, edging closer to him. He felt strangely protective of the witcher, as if Maja would turn into a lion at any moment, intent on gouging his eyes out. Jaskier caught her eyes and swallowed.

He was always bad at saying goodbye. 

He tried to think of something to say, something that would make this better, something that wasn’t ‘I love you’ and that wouldn’t make him lose an eye in the process. 

Maja set her jaw and spat on the ground. 

“Leave,” she said, quietly. Then, to the surrounding blades, “Get his things. I want no trace of him in my camp.”

She was much more effective than he was. Within a few minutes Kamiel was in front of him, loaded up with his bags, lute, and even the short sword, safely returned to its sheath. Geralt was still looming behind him, although he had turned slightly to observe the bandits. Jaskier noticed that they kept shifting, moving and weaving in and out of each other, and the light, making it hard to determine how many of them there were in any given place. 

Only Maja stayed still, every part of her tense and waiting, a wolf before its prey. She looked beautiful and dangerous, her hair escaping its plait, the embroidery of her dress catching the flickering light of the fire. 

Jaskier should say something. He should apologize or...offer a song, a verse, a ditty, anything.

“Believe in...your dreams.”

“What?”

Geralt sighed. Jaskier wanted to die. He swallowed and licked his lips. He gestured and made an incoherent noise. 

“We’re leaving,” Geralt said, grabbing Jaskier by the nape of his doublet. Jaskier, who would have usually protested against something so ridiculous and demeaning, as he was not a puppy and didn’t need to be carted around like one, instead allowed himself to be pulled. It was easier than trying to reconcile what he had just said with the fact that he literally made his living from saying clever things. 

He snagged Kamiel’s reins, encouraging her to follow them. Jaskier’s mouth was still dry. He was so sure that he would have said something inspiring, something that Maja would have remembered the rest of her life. Instead, he had said ‘Believe in your dreams,’ and gotten dragged off by his witcher. 

“Wait,” Jaskier pulled away from Geralt, batting his hands away as they got further away from the encampment. “Where did you even _come from_ , Geralt?”

Geralt glanced over at him, still walking purposefully. Jaskier was having a hard time reading the look on his face. It might have been the fact that it was about ten o’clock at night and cloudy. It might have been the general expression of malcontent that constantly adorned his countenance. Who could truly say.

“Geralt?”

Nothing, typical. That wasn’t good enough, and Jaskier seemed to have grown a pair of very big balls since he had been with the bandits. 

“You know that you just ruined one of the best gigs I’ve had in years?”

“Riding with bandits is not a gig, Jaskier.”

“That’s what you think!” Jaskier said, spotting Roach in the near distance. “Shows what you know, doesn’t it.”

Geralt glared at him again. They got to Roach and Geralt quickly pulled himself up, looking over and clearly indicating that Jaskier should get on Kamiel. 

“Where are we even going, it’s the middle of the night.” 

“The path is nearby, it’ll be clear.” Geralt turned Roach west. Jaskier wanted to scream. He settled for reaching down and picking up a rock, throwing it at Geralt’s shoulder. 

Geralt slowly turned around, still on top of Roach, and gave Jaskier a look that would have sent a smarter man running. Jaskier, an idiot, was too furious to recognize it. 

“That doesn’t answer the question!” He wasn’t screaming, but he was...approaching it. “That’s a direction and not a destination, and I want to know where we’re going!”

Geralt set his jaw, and Jaskier thought that he was so very, very close to breaking it. He pointed west. “There’s an abandoned town. It will be safe to camp there.”

Jaskier swallowed and nodded, deigning not to say anything. Geralt’s eyebrows went up and it was obvious that he had expected some retort or remark. When Jaskier steadfastly remained quiet (an act of both defiance and self-preservation he found to be very noble, aloof even) the witcher turned away from him and nudged Roach forward. 

Although Jaskier was comfortable on a horse he didn’t feel like pushing Kamiel to navigate the small dips and rocks of the scrubland and instead chose to walk behind Geralt, holding Kamiel’s lead. 

He remained silent, and Kamiel’s footsteps were not enough, apparently, to convince Geralt that the bard was following, and he glanced over his shoulder more than a few times on the way to the path and then northward, presumably to the desuetude town. The third time this happened Jaskier very kindly made a very rude gesture, and Geralt’s face turned sour. 

“Afraid I’ll disappear?” Jaskier managed to spit out, exhaustion finally bringing his anger close to the surface. 

Geralt didn’t answer, and that wasn’t at all what Jaskier wanted. He stooped and picked up a pebble, hucking it at Geralt’s back. 

“I’m talking to you!” He raised his voice, eyes narrowed. “The least you could do is respond!”

“No.” 

“No! Oh, no. No, one cannot force Geralt of Rivia to do anything, of course not!” Jaskier was glaring at the back of his head. “But woe betide the man or monster that dares to cross his path, that refuses his wills.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, loud enough to be heard. 

“You’re the one who dragged me off! You should know what you’re getting into! You bring a bard on an adventure, you’re bound to hear about it.”

Geralt seemed unwilling to comment on this. Jaskier fumed as they walked over another hill, and finally Jaskier saw the ruins of the town. He swallowed and realized that he would have to attempt to sleep near Geralt if he could sleep at all. 

“It’s freezing,” Jaskier moaned as they walked into the old town. Geralt made a gesture that he knew to mean ‘stay back,’ but the bard was far from compliant. As Geralt walked through the town, barely looking like he was doing more than taking a stroll, even as Jaskier knew that he was inspecting the town for monsters, men, and traps. He moved like a wraith, and Jaskier refused to make it easy. He left Kam with Roach, and gathered some sticks and twigs, finding a downed tree and dragging some of the trunk back to the area that Geralt had chosen. 

As the witcher explored the town, Jaskier built the fire and then sat back, holding onto his hastily thrown together pack. He spread it out and realized that even in their haste one of Maja’s bandits hadn’t missed an opportunity to piss on it, as a memento. 

“Delightful,” Jaskier grumbled, finding an open area and spreading the blanket out, returning to the fire shivering. 

Sitting down, already in his half-meditative stance, was Geralt. 

Jaskier stood across from him, glaring. “Give me your blanket.”

“What?” Geralt looked up, frowning. 

“Give me your blanket tonight,” Jaskier demanded again, holding his hand out. “Or we can share, but you’ve never seemed quite interested in that, and I don’t have the energy to try to seduce you tonight. Frankly, I’m a little upset with you, and if you wanted a seduction you’d have to bend over to get it.”

Geralt shook his head, looking away. He stood, going over to Roach, presumably getting out his pack. He didn’t put up nearly enough of a fight, and Jaskier was still too angry to let him go quietly. 

“How did you even find me?” He asked again, stepping forward. 

“I followed your tracks,” Geralt responded, in a surprising moment of candor. 

“How?” Jaskier demanded tearing the pack from Geralt’s hands but not walking away. “I was lost in the fucking barrens for three days before I was picked up.”

“Mm.” 

This was infuriating. Jaskier wanted to scream. 

“You know, I didn’t ask you to find me! That wasn’t a cry for help!” Jaskier finally said, dropping the pack on the ground. “You fucking left, Geralt, and I found my own way, and I was going to head to Novigrad in a few days--”

At this, Geralt snorted, and Jaskier snapped. He stepped forward, and possessed of no reason and with no inclination towards self-preservation at all, shoved at Geralt. The witcher barely moved, but his expression darkened. 

They stood in silence, and Jaskier tried to shove him again. At this, Geralt caught his hand and squeeze his wrist. He leaned in, attempting to tower over Jaskier, despite the fact that barely two inches separated their heights, and Jaskier refused to be towered over. 

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t want to be protected!”

Jaskier, bloody, bruised, breathing hard, had had enough. The witcher seemed to misunderstand a basic cornerstone of his motivation so here was the time to nip this fully bloomed god damn flower. 

“I want adventure, Geralt. I want...fucking danger. I want to see the world. I want to travel with you and watch as you force the entire, stupid, fucking world to look at you.” He set his jaw, daring Geralt to say something. When he didn’t, Jaskier steeled himself again. 

“I don’t want to be safe, or in a home, or palace, or mansion, hitched up with some partner and a collection of instruments only good to look at! I want to be with you. And at this point, I’ve known you long enough, and I’ve been dragged around enough, I know what that means. I want to be there as you fight the whole god-damn world. I want to be there when you run away from it. I want to watch you, and you keep thinking that I’m only following your ass because it’s so tight I could bounce a coin off it.”

Jaskier swallowed and shook his head. He pulled at his hand and dragged it away from Geralt’s grip. The witcher was unreadable, and Jaskier was furious. He glared at Geralt, who was standing, silent and still, staring at Jaskier. The bard barked out a laugh, pushing his hair back, shaking his head. 

“I know what happens to you, or...around you. I’m not fucking... I’m not afraid, Geralt.” And then, for emphasis, and because it was one of Geralt’s favorite words, he added on a spiteful; “Fuck you.” 

After all that, he didn’t expect Geralt to kiss him. 


End file.
